- 


^ 

a 


WORKS   OF   ROBERT   W.   CHAMBERS 


Cardigan 

The  Maid-at-Arms 

The  Reckoning 

Lorraine 

Maids  of  Paradise 

Ashes  of  Empire 

The  Red  Republic 

The  King  in  Yellow 

The  Maker  of  Moons 


A  King  and  a  Few  Dukes 
The  Conspirators 
The  Cambric  Mask 
The  Haunts  of  Men 
Outsiders 

A  Young  Man  in  a  Hurry 
In  Search  of  the  Unknown 
In  the  Quarter 
The  Mystery  of  Choice 
lole 


FOR  CHILDREN 

Outdoor-Land  River-Land 

Orchard-Land  Forest-Land 


IOLE 


'  The  little  things,"  he  continued,  delicately  perforating  the 
atmosphere  as  though  selecting  a  diatom. 


E 


By 

CHAMBERS 


D.  APPLETOK  &  CO. 
Newark  MDCCCCV 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 


ROBERT  W.   C 
•*.  •      •      • 


Published  May,  1905 


TO 


GEORGE    HORACE    LORIMER 


PREFACE 

anybody  remember  the  opera 

i|*§npi     of    The    Inca,    and    that    heart- 
-  breaking  episode  where  the  Court 

Undertaker,  in  a  morbid  desire  to 
increase  his  professional  skill,  deliberately  ac- 
complishes the  destruction  of  his  middle-aged 
relatives  in  order  to  inter  them  for  the  sake 
of  practise  ? 

If   I  recollect,   his  dismal  confession   runs 
something  like  this : 

"  It  was  in  a  bleak  November 
When  I  slew  them,  I  remember, 
As  I  caught  them  unawares 
Drinking  tea  in  rocking-chairs." 

And  so  he  talked  them  to  death,  the  subject 
being  "What  Really  is  Art?"  Afterward  he 
was  sorry — 

xi 


xii  Preface 

"  The  squeak  of  a  door, 

The  creak  of  the  floor, 
My  horrors  and  fears  enhance; 

And  I  wake  with  a  scream 

As  I  hear  in  my  dream 
The  shrieks  of  my  maiden  aunts !  " 

Now  it  is  a  very  dreadful  thing  to  suggest 
that  those  highly  respectable  pseudo-spinsters, 
the  Sister  Arts,  supposedly  cozily  immune  in 
their  polygamous  chastity  (for  every  suitor 
for  favor  is  popularly  expected  to  be  wedded 
to  his  particular  art) — I  repeat,  it  is  very 
dreadful  to  suggest  that  these  impeccable  old 
ladies  are  in  danger  of  being  talked  to  death. 

But  the  talkers  are  talking  and  Art  Nouveau 
rockers  are  rocking,  and  the  trousers  of  the 
prophet  are  patched  with  stained  glass,  and  it 
is  a  day  of  dinkiness  and  of  thumbs. 

Let  us  find  comfort  in  the  ancient  proverb: 
"Art  talked  to  death  shall  rise  again."  Let 
us  also  recollect  that  "  Dinky  is  as  dinky 
does  " ;  that  "All  is  not  Shaw  that  Bernards  " ; 
that  "  Better  Yeates  than  Clever  " ;  that  words 
are  so  inexpensive  that  there  is  no  moral  crime 
in  robbing  Henry  to  pay  James. 

Firmly  believing  all  this,  abjuring  all  atom- 


Preface  xiii 

pickers,  slab  furniture,  and  woodchuck  litera- 
ture— save  only  the  immortal  verse: 

"And  there  the  wooden-chuck  doth  tread ; 

While  from  the  oak  trees'  tops 
The  red,  red  squirrel  on  thy  head 
The  frequent  acorn  drops." 

Abjuring,  as  I  say,  dinkiness  in  all  its  forms, 
we  may  still  hope  that  those  cleanly  and 
respectable  spinsters,  the  Sister  Arts,  will 
continue  throughout  the  ages,  rocking  and 
drinking  tea  unterrified  by  the  million-tongued 
clamor  in  the  back  yard  and  below  stairs, 
where  thumb  and  forefinger  continue  the 
question  demanded  by  intellectual  exhaustion : 
"L'arr!  Kesker  say  1'arr?" 


FULL-PAGE   ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


"The  little  things,"  he  continued,  deli- 
cately perforating  the  atmosphere 
as  though  selecting  a  diatom. 

Fron  tispiece 
From  a  drawing  by  J.  C.  Leyendecker. 

"  Simplicity,"  breathed  Guilford— "  a 
single  blossom  against  a  back- 
ground of  nothing  at  all  " 

From  a  drawing  by  J.  C.  Leyendecker. 

He  paused ;  his  six  tall  and  blooming 
daughters,  two  and  two  behind  him 

From  a  drawing  by  Karl  Anderson. 

Aphrodite's  slender  fingers,  barely  rest- 
ing on  the  harp-strings,  suddenly 
contracted  in  a  nervous  tremor  . 

From  a  drawing  by  Karl  Anderson. 


22 


54 


106 


Decorative  drawings  by  Arthur  C.  Becker. 
3  xvii 


I  O  LE 


AIN'T  never  knowed  no  one  like 
him,"  continued  the  station-agent 
reflectively.     "  He    made    us    all 
look    like    monkeys,   but   he  was 
good  to  us.     Ever  see  a  ginuine  poet,  sir  ?  " 

"  Years  ago  one  was  pointed  out  to  me," 
replied  Briggs. 

"  Was  yours  smooth  shaved,  with  large,  fat, 
white  fingers  ?  "  inquired  the  station-agent. 

"  If  I  remember  correctly,  he  was  thin," 
said  Briggs,  sitting  down  on  his  suit-case  and 
gazing  apprehensively  around  at  the  landscape. 


There  was  nothing  to  see  but  low,  forbidding 
mountains,  and  forests,  and  a  railroad  track 
curving  into  a  tunnel. 

The  station-agent  shoved  his  hairy  hands 
into  the  pockets  of  his  overalls,  jingled  an 
unseen  bunch  of  keys,  and  chewed  a  dry  grass 
stem,  ruminating  the  while  in  an  undertone : 

"  This  poet  come  here  five  years  ago  with 
all  them  kids,  an'  the  fust  thing  he  done  was 
to  dress  up  his  girls  in  boys'  pants.  Then 
he  went  an'  built  a  humpy  sort  o'  house  out 
of  stones  and  boulders.  Then  he  went  to  work 
an'  wrote  pieces  for  the  papers  about  jay- 
birds an'  woodchucks  an'  goddesses.  He 
claimed  the  woods  was  full  of  goddesses. 
That  was  his  way,  sir." 

The  agent  contemplated  the  railroad  track, 
running  his  eye  along  the  perspective  of  pol- 
ished rails : 

"  Yes,  sir ;  his  name  was — and  is — Clarence 
Guilford,  an'  I  fust  seen  it  signed  to  a  piece 
in  the  Uticy  Star.  An'  next  I  knowed,  folks 
began  to  stop  off  here  inquirin'  for  Mr.  Guil- 
ford. '  Is  this  here  where  Guilford,  the  poet, 
lives  ? '  sez  they ;  an'  they  come  thicker  an' 
thicker  in  warm  weather.  There  wasn't  no 
wagon  to  take  'em  up  to  Guilford's,  but  they 


lole  3 

didn't  care,  an'  they  called  it  a  litVy  shrine, 
an'  they  hit  the  pike,  women,  children,  men 
— 'speshil  the  women,  an'  I  heard  'em  tellin' 
how  Guilford  dressed  his  kids  in  pants  an' 
how  Guilford  was  a  famous  new  lit'r'y  poet, 
an'  they  said  he  was  fixin'  to  lecture  in 
Uticy." 

The  agent  gnawed  off  the  chewed  portion 
of  the  grass  stem,  readjusted  it,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  vacancy. 

"  Three  year  this  went  on.  Mr.  Guilford 
was  makin'  his  pile,  I  guess.  He  set  up  a 
shop  an'  hired  art  bookbinders  from  York. 
Then  he  set  up  another  shop  an'  hired  some 
of  us  'round  here  to  go  an'  make  them  big, 
slabby  art-chairs.  All  his  shops  was  called 
"  At  the  sign  of  "  somethin'  'r  other.  Bales 
of  vellum  arrived  for  to  bind  little  dinky 
books ;  art  rocking-chairs  was  shipped  out  o' 
here  by  the  carload.  Meanwhile  Guilford  he 
done  poetry  on  the  side  an'  run  a  magazine; 
an'  hearin'  the  boys  was  makin'  big  money 
up  in  that  crank  community,  an'  that  the  town 
was  boomin',  I  was  plum  fool  enough  to  drop 
my  job  here  an'  be  a  art-worker  up  to  Rose- 
Cross — that's  where  the  shops  was ;  'bout  three 
mile  back  of  his  house  into  the  woods." 


4  lole 

The  agent  removed  his  hands  from  his  over- 
alls and  folded  his  arms  grimly. 

"  Well  ?  "  inquired  Briggs,  looking  up  from 
his  perch  on  the  suit-case. 

"  Well,  sir/'  continued  the  agent,  "  the  hull 
thing  bust.  I  guess  the  public  kinder  sick- 
ened o'  them  art-rockers  an'  dinky  books  with- 
out much  printin'  into  them.  Guilford  he 
stuck  to  it  noble,  but  the  shops  closed  one  by 
one.  My  wages  wasn't  paid  for  three  months ; 
the  boys  that  remained  got  together  that  au- 
tumn an'  fixed  it  up  to  quit  in  a  bunch. 

"  The  poet  was  sad ;  he  come  out  to  the 
shops  an'  he  says,  '  Boys,'  sez  he,  '  art  is  long 
an'  life  is  dam  brief.  I  ain't  got  the  cash, 
but,'  sez  he,  '  you  can  levy  onto  them  art- 
rockers  an'  the  dinky  vellum  books  in  stock, 
an','  sez  he,  '  you  can  take  the  hand-presses 
an'  the  tools  an'  bales  o'  vellum,  which  is  very 
precious,  an'  all  the  wagons  an'  hosses,  an'  go 
sell  'em  in  that  proud  world  that  refuses  to 
receive  my  message.  The  woodland  fellow- 
ship is  rent,'  sez  he,  wavin'  his  plump  fingers 
at  us  with  the  rings  sparklin'  on  'em. 

"  Then  the  boys  looked  glum,  an'  they 
nudged  me  an'  kinder  shoved  me  front.  So, 
bein'  elected,  I  sez,  '  Friend,'  sez  I,  '  art  is  on 


lole  5 

the  bum.  It  ain't  your  fault;  the  boys  is  sad 
an'  sorrerful,  but  they  ain't  never  knocked  you 
to  nobody,  Mr.  Guilford.  You  was  good  to 
us ;  you  done  your  damdest.  You  made  up 
pieces  for  the  magazines  an'  papers  an'  you 
advertised  how  we  was  all  cranks  together 
here  at  Rose-Cross,  a-lovin'  Nature  an'  dicky- 
birds, an'  wanderin'  about  half  nood  for  art's 
sake. 

"'Mr.  Guilford,'  sez  I,  '  that  gilt  brick 
went.  But  it  has  went  as  far  as  it  can  travel 
an'  is  now  reposin'  into  the  soup.  Git  wise 
or  eat  hay,  sir.  Art  is  on  the  blink.'  " 

The  agent  jingled  his  keys  with  a  melan- 
choly wink  at  Briggs. 

"  So  I  come  back  here,  an'  thankful  to  hold 
down  this  job.  An'  five  mile  up  the  pike  is 
that  there  noble  poet  an'  his  kids  a-makin'  up 
pieces  for  to  sell  to  the  papers,  an'  a  sorrerin' 
over  the  cold  world  what  refuses  to  buy  his 
poems — an'  a  mortgage  onto  his  house  an'  a 
threat  to  foreclose." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Briggs  dreamily,  for  it  was 
his  business  to  attend  to  the  foreclosure  of  the 
mortgage  on  the  poet's  house. 

"  Was  you  fixin'  to  go  up  an'  see  the  place  ?  " 
inquired  the  agent. 


6  lole 

"  Shall  I  be  obliged  to  walk?  " 

"  I  guess  you  will  if  you  can't  flutter,"  re- 
plied the  agent.  "  I  ain't  got  no  wagon  an'  no 
horse." 

"How  far  is  it?" 

"  Five  mile,  sir." 

With  a  groan  Mr.  Briggs  arose,  lifted  his 
suit-case,  and,  walking  to  the  platform's  edge, 
cast  an  agitated  glance  up  the  dusty  road. 

Then  he  turned  around  and  examined  the 
single  building  in  sight — station,  water-tower, 
post-office  and  telegraph-office  all  in  one,  and 
incidentally  the  abode  of  the  station-agent, 
whose  duties  included  that  of  postmaster  and 
operator. 

"  I'll  write  a  letter  first,"  said  Briggs.  And 
this  is  what  he  wrote : 

ROSE-CROSS  P.  O., 
June  25 ',  1904. 

DEAR  WAYNE  :  Do  you  remember  that  tract 
of  land,  adjoining  your  preserve,  which  you 
attempted  to  buy  four  years  ago  ?  It  was  held 
by  a  crank  community,  and  they  refused  to 
sell,  and  made  trouble  for  your  patrols  by 
dumping  dye-stuffs  and  sawdust  into  the  Ash- 
ton  Creek. 


lole  7 

Well,  the  community  has  broken  up,  the 
shops  are  in  ruins,  and  there  is  nobody  there 
now  except  that  bankrupt  poet,  Guilford.  I 
bought  the  mortgage  for  you,  foreseeing  a 
slump  in  that  sort  of  art,  and  I  expect  to 
begin  foreclosure  proceedings  and  buy  in  the 
tract,  which,  as  you  will  recollect,  includes 
some  fine  game  cover  and  the  Ashton  stream, 
where  you  wanted  to  establish  a  hatchery. 
This  is  a  God-forsaken  spot.  I'm  on  my  way 
to  the  poet's  now.  Shall  I  begin  foreclosure 
proceedings  and  fire  him?  Wire  me  what  to 
do.  Yours, 

BRIGGS. 

Wayne  received  this  letter  two  days  later. 
Preoccupied  as  he  was  in  fitting  out  his 
yacht  for  commission,  he  wired  briefly,  "  Fire 
poet,"  and  dismissed  the  matter  from  his 
mind. 

The  next  day,  grappling  with  the  problem  of 
Japanese  stewards  and  the  decadence  of  all 
sailormen,  he  received  a  telegram  from 
Briggs : 

"  Can't  you  manage  to  come  up  here  ?  " 

Irritated,  he  telegraphed  back : 

"  Impossible.  Why  don't  you  arrange  to 
4 


8  lole 

fire  poet  ?  "  And  Briggs  replied :  "  Can't  fire 
poet.  There  are  extenuating  circumstances." 
"  Did  you  say  exterminating  or  extenuat- 
ing?" wired  Wayne.  "I  said  extenuating," 
replied  Briggs. 

Then    the    following    telegrams    were    ex- 
changed in  order : 


What  are  the  extenuating  circumstances? 

WAYNE. 

(2) 

Eight  innocent  children.     Come  up  at  once. 

BRIGGS. 

(3) 

Boat  in  commission.  Can't  go.  Why  don't 
you  fix  things?  WAYNE. 

(4) 
How  ?  BRIGGS. 

(5) 

(Dated  NEW  LONDON.) 

What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Are 
you  going  to  fix  things  and  join  me  at  Bar 
Harbor  or  are  you  not?  WAYNE. 


lole  9 

(6) 

As  I  don't  know  how  you  want  me  to  fix 
things,  I  can  not  join  you.  BRIGGS. 

(7) 

(Dated  PORTLAND,  MAINE.) 

Stuyvesant  Briggs,  what  the  devil  is  the 
matter  with  you?  It's  absolutely  necessary 
that  I  have  the  Ashton  stream  for  a  hatchery, 
and  you  know  it.  What  sort  of  a  business 
man  are  you,  anyhow  ?  Of  course  I  don't  pro- 
pose to  treat  that  poet  inhumanly.  Arrange 
to  bid  in  the  tract,  run  up  the  price  against 
your  own  bidding,  and  let  the  poet  have  a  few 
thousand  if  he  is  hard  put.  Don't  worry  me 
any  more ;  I'm  busy  with  a  fool  crew,  and  you 
are  spoiling  my  cruise  by  not  joining  me. 

WAYNE. 

(8). 

He  won't  do  it.  BRIGGS. 

(9) 
Who  won't  do  -what?  WAYNE. 

(10) 
Poet  refuses  to  discuss  the  matter. 

BRIGGS. 


io  lole 

(ii) 

Fire  that  poet.  You've  spoiled  my  cruise 
with  your  telegrams.  WAYNE. 

(12) 

(Marked  "Collect.") 

Look  here,  George  Wayne,  don't  drive  me 
to  desperation.  You  ought  to  come  up  and 
face  the  situation  yourself.  I  can't  fire  a  poet 
with  eight  helpless  children,  can  I  ?  And 
while  I'm  about  it,  let  me  inform  you  that 
every  time  you  telegraph  me  it  costs  me  five 
dollars  for  a  carrier  to  bring  the  despatch  over 
from  the  station ;  and  every  time  I  telegraph 
you  I  am  obliged  to  walk  five  miles  to  send 
it  and  five  miles  back  again.  I'm  mad  all 
through,  and  my  shoes  are  worn  out,  and  I'm 
tired.  Besides,  I'm  too  busy  to  telegraph. 

BRIGGS. 

(13) 

Do  you  expect  me  to  stop  my  cruise  and 
travel  up  to  that  hole  on  account  of  eight 
extenuating  kids?  WAYNE. 

(14) 

I  do.  BRIGGS. 


lole  1 1 

(IS) 
Are  you  mad?  WAYNE. 

(16) 
Thoroughly.      And  extremely  busy. 

BRIGGS. 

(17) 

For  the  last  time,  Stuyve  Briggs,  are  you 
going  to  bounce  one  defaulting  poet  and  prog- 
eny, arrange  to  have  survey  and  warnings 
posted,  order  timber  and  troughs  for  hatchery, 
engage  extra  patrol — or  are  you  not? 

WAYNE. 

(18) 
No.  BRIGGS. 

(19) 

(Received  a  day  later  by  Mr.  Wayne.} 
Are  you  coming?  BRIGGS. 


(20) 

I'm  coming  to  punch  your  head. 


WAYNE. 


II 


HEN  George  Wayne  arrived  at 
Rose-Cross  station,  seaburnt, 
angry,  and  in  excellent  athletic 
condition,  Briggs  locked  him- 
self in  the  waiting-room  and  attempted  to 
calm  the  newcomer  from  the  window. 

"  If  you're  going  to  pitch  into  me,  George," 
he  said,  "  I'm  hanged  if  I  come  out,  and  you 
can  go  to  Guilford's  alone." 

"  Come  out  of  there,"  said  Wayne  danger- 
ously. 

"  It  isn't  because  I'm  afraid  of  you,"  ex- 
plained Briggs,  "but  it's  merely  that  I  don't 
choose  to  present  either  you  or  myself  to  a  lot 
12 


lole  1 3 

of  pretty  girls  with  the  marks  of  conflict  all 
over  our  eyes  and  noses." 

At  the  words  "  pretty  girls "  Wayne's 
battle-set  features  relaxed.  He  motioned  to 
the  Pullman  porter  to  deposit  his  luggage  on 
the  empty  platform;  the  melancholy  bell-notes 
of  the  locomotive  sounded,  the  train  moved 
slowly  forward. 

"  Pretty  girls  ? "  he  repeated  in  a  softer 
voice.  "  Where  are  they  staying?  Of  course, 
under  the  circumstances  a  personal  encounter 
is  superfluous.  Where  are  they  staying?" 

"  At  Guilford's.  I  told  you  so  in  my  tele- 
grams, didn't  I  ?  " 

"  No,  you  didn't.  You  spoke  only  of  a  poet 
and  his  eight  helpless  children." 

"  Well,  those  girls  are  the  eight  children," 
retorted  Briggs  sullenly,  emerging  from  the 
station. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  They're  his  children,  aren't 
they — even  if  they  are  girls,  and  pretty."  He 
offered  a  mollifying  hand ;  Wayne  took  it, 
shook  it  uncertainly,  and  fell  into  step  beside 
his  friend.  "  Eight  pretty  girls,"  he  repeated 
under  his  breath.  "  What  did  you  do, 
Stuyve?" 


14  lole 

"  What  was  I  to  do  ? "  inquired  Briggs, 
nervously  worrying  his  short  blond  mustache. 
"  When  I  arrived  here  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  fire  the  poet  and  arrange  for  the 
hatchery  and  patrol.  The  farther  I  walked 
through  the  dust  of  this  accursed  road,  lug- 
ging my  suit-case  as  you  are  doing  now,  the 
surer  I  was  that  I'd  get  rid  of  the  poet  without 
mercy.  But " 

"  Well  ?  "  inquired  Wayne,  astonished. 

"  But  when  I'd  trudged  some  five  miles  up 
the  stifling  road  I  suddenly  emerged  into  a 
wonderful  mountain  meadow.  I  tell  you, 
George,  it  looked  fresh  and  sweet  as  Heaven 
after  that  dusty,  parching  tramp — a  moun- 
tain meadow  deep  with  mint  and  juicy  green 
grasses,  and  all  cut  up  by  little  rushing 
streams  as  cold  as  ice.  There  were  a  lot  of 
girls  in  pink  sunbonnets  picking  wild  straw- 
berries in  the  middle  distance,"  he  added 
thoughtfully.  "  It  was  picturesque,  wasn't  it  ? 
Come,  now,  George,  wouldn't  that  give  you 
pause? — eight  girls  in  pink  pajamas " 

"What!!!" 

"  And  sunbonnets — a  sort  of  dress  reform 
of  the  poet's." 

"Well?"  inquired  Wayne  coldly. 


lole  15 

"  And  there  was  the  '  house  beautiful/  mer- 
cifully screened  by  woods,"  continued  Briggs. 
"  He  calls  it  the  house  beautiful,  you  know." 

"Why  not  the  beautiful  house?"  asked 
Wayne,  still  more  coldly. 

"  Oh,  he  gets  everything  upside  down. 
Guilford  is  harmless,  you'll  see."  He  began 
to  whistle  Fatinitza  softly.  There  was  a  si- 
lence; then  Wayne  said: 

"  You  interrupted  your  narrative." 

"Where  was  I?" 

"  In  the  foreground  with  eight  pink  pajamas 
in  the  middle  distance." 

"  Oh,  yes.  So  there  I  was,  travel-worn, 
thirsty,  weary,  uncertain " 

"  Cut  it,"  observed  Wayne. 

"  And  a  stranger,"  continued  Briggs  with 
dignity,  "  in  a  strange  country " 

"  Peculiarity  of  strangers." 

Briggs  took  no  notice.  "  I  drank  from  the 
cool  springs;  I  lingered  to  pluck  a  delicious 
berry  or  two,  I  bathed  my  hot  face,  I " 

"  Where,"  demanded  Wayne,  "  were  the 
eight  pink  'uns  ?  " 

"  Still  in  the  middle  distance.  Don't  inter- 
rupt me,  George;  I'm  slowly  drawing  closer 

to  them." 

5 


1 6  lole 

"  Well,  get  a  move  on,"  retorted  Wayne 
sulkily. 

"  I'm  quite  close  to  them  now,"  explained 
Briggs;  "  close  enough  to  remove  my  hat  and 
smile  and  inquire  the  way  to  Guilford's.  One 
superb  young  creature,  with  creamy  skin  and 
very  red  lips " 

Wayne  halted  and  set  down  his  suit-case. 

"  I'm  not  romancing;  you'll  see,"  said 
Briggs  earnestly.  "  As  I  was  saying,  this 
young  goddess  looked  at  me  in  the  sweetest 
way  and  said  that  Guilford  was  her  father. 
And,  Wayne,  do  you  know  what  she  did? 
She — er — came  straight  up  to  me  and  took 
hold  of  my  hand,  and  led  me  up  the  path 
toward  the  high-art  house,  which  is  built  of 
cobblestones  !  Think  !  Built  of  cobble " 

"  Took  you  by  the  hand  ?  "  repeated  Wayne 
incredulously. 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  right,  George !  I  found  out 
all  about  that  sort  of  innocent  thing  later." 

"Did  you?" 

"  Certainly.  These  girls  have  been  brought 
up  like  so  many  guileless  speckled  fawns  out 
here  in  the  backwoods.  You  know  all  about 
Guilford,  the  poet  who's  dead  stuck  on  Nature 
and  simplicity.  Well,  that's  the  man  and 


lole  1 7 

that's  his  pose.  He  hasn't  any  money,  and 
he  won't  work.  His  daughters  raise  vege- 
tables, and  he  makes  'em  wear  bloomers,  and 
he  writes  about  chippy-birds  and  the  house 
beautiful,  and  tells  people  to  be  natural,  and 
wishes  that  everybody  could  go  around  with- 
out clothes  and  pick  daisies " 

"  Do  they?"  demanded  Wayne  in  an  awful 
voice.  "  You  said  they  wore  bloomers.  Did 
you  say  that  to  break  the  news  more  gently? 
Did  you !  " 

"  Of  course  they  are  clothed,"  explained  his 
friend  querulously ;  "  though  sometimes  they 
wade  about  without  shoes  and  stockings  and 
do  the  nymph  business.  And,  George,  it's  as- 
tonishing how  modest  that  sort  of  dress  is. 
And  it's  amazing  how  much  they  know. 
Why,  they  can  talk  Greek — talk  it,  mind  you. 
Every  one  of  them  can  speak  half  a  dozen  lan- 
guages— Guilford  is  a  corker  on  culture,  you 
know — and  they  can  play  harps  and  pianos 
and  things,  and  give  me  thirty  at  tennis,  even 
Chlorippe,  the  twelve-year-old- " 

"  Is  that  her  name  ?  "  asked  Wayne. 

"  Chlorippe  ?  Yes.  That  bat-headed  poet 
named  all  his  children  after  butterflies.  Let's 
see,"  he  continued,  telling  off  the  names  on 


1 8  lole 

his  fingers ;  "  there's  Chlorippe,  twelve ;  Phil- 
odice,  thirteen ;  Dione,  fourteen ;  Aphrodite, 
fifteen ;  Cybele,  sixteen ;  Lissa,  seventeen ;  lole, 
eighteen,  and  Vanessa,  nineteen.  And, 
Wayne,  never  have  the  Elysian  fields  con- 
tained such  a  bunch  of  wholesome  beauty 
as  that  mountain  meadow  contains  all  day 
long." 

Wayne,  trudging  along,  suit-case  firmly 
gripped,  turned  a  pair  of  suspicious  eyes  upon 
his  friend. 

"  Of  course,"  observed  Briggs  candidly,  "  I 
simply  couldn't  foreclose  on  the  father  of  such 
children,  could  I  ?  Besides,  he  won't  let  me 
discuss  the  subject." 

"  I'll  investigate  the  matter  personally,"  said 
Wayne. 

"  Nowhere  to  lay  their  heads !  Think  of  it, 
George.  And  all  because  a  turtle-fed,  claret- 
flushed,  idle  and  rich  young  man  wants  their 
earthly  Paradise  for  a  fish-hatchery.  Think 
of  it !  A  pampered,  turtle-fed " 

"  You've  said  that  before,"  snapped  Wayne. 
"  If  you  were  half  decent  you'd  help  me  with 
this  suit-case.  Whew !  It's  hot  as  Yonkers 
on  this  cattle-trail  you  call  a  road.  How  near 
are  we  to  Guilford's  ?  " 


lole  19 

An  hour  later  Briggs  said :  "  By  the  way, 
George,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  the 
matter  ?  " 

Wayne,  flushed,  dusty,  perspiring,  scowled 
at  him. 

"What  matter?" 

"  The  foreclosure/' 

"  I  don't  know ;  how  can  I  know  until  I 
see  Guilford  ?  " 

"  But  you  need  the  hatchery " 

"  I  know  it." 


"  But  he  won't  let  vou  discuss  it- 


"  If,"  said  Wayne  angrily,  "  you  had  spent 
half  the  time  talking  business  with  the  poet 
that  you  spent  picking  strawberries  with  his 
helpless  children  I  should  not  now  be  lugging 
this  suit-case  up  this  mountain.  Decency  re- 
quires few  observations  from  you  just  now." 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Briggs.  "  Wait  till  you  see 
lole." 

"  Why  lole  ?    Why  not  Vanessa  ?  " 

"  Don't— that's  all,"  retorted  Briggs,  red- 
dening. 

Wayne  plumped  his  valise  down  in  the  dust, 
mopped  his  brow,  folded  his  arms,  and  re- 
garded Briggs  between  the  eyes. 

"  You  have  the  infernal  cheek,  after  getting 


2O  lolc 

me  up  here,  to  intimate  that  you  have  taken 
the  pick  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  replied  Briggs  firmly.  The  two 
young  fellows  faced  each  other. 

"  By  the  way/'  observed  Briggs  casually, 
"  the  stock  they  come  from  is  as  good  if  not 
better  than  ours.  This  is  a  straight  game." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you — you  are — 
seriously " 

"  Something  like  it.  There !  Now  you 
know." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Stuyve " 

"  Yes,  for  Heaven's  sake  and  in  Heaven's 
name  don't  get  any  wrong  ideas  into  your 
vicious  head." 

"What?" 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Briggs,  "  that  I  was  never 
closer  to  falling  in  love  than  I  am  to-day.  And 
I've  been  here  just  two  weeks." 

"  Oh,  Lord— 

"  Amen,"  muttered  Briggs.  "  Here,  give 
me  your  carpet-bag,  you  brute.  We're  on  the 
edge  of  Paradise." 


Ill 


EFORE  we  discuss  my  financial 
difficulties,"  said  the  poet,  lifting 
his  plump  white  hand  and  wav- 
ing it  in  unctuous  waves  about 
the  veranda,  "  let  me  show  you  our  home, 
Mr.  Wayne.  May  I  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Wayne  politely,  following 
Guilford  into  the  house. 

They  entered  a  hall;  there  was  absolutely 
nothing  in  the  hall  except  a  small  table  on 
which  reposed  a  single  daisy  in  a  glass  of 
water. 

"  Simplicity,"  breathed  Guilford — "  a  sin- 
gle blossom  against  a  background  of  nothing 
at  all.  You  follow  me,  Mr.  Wayne?  " 

21 


22 


lole 


"  Not — exactly- 


The  poet  smiled  a  large,  tender  smile,  and, 
with  inverted  thumb,  executed  a  gesture  as 
though  making  several  spots  in  the  air. 

"  The  concentration  of  composition,"  he 
explained ;  "  the  elimination  of  complexity ; 
the  isolation  of  the  concrete  in  the  center 
of  the  abstract ;  something  in  the  midst  of 
nothing.  It  is  a  very  precious  thought,  Mr. 
Wayne." 

"  Certainly,"  muttered  Wayne ;  and  they 
moved  on. 

"  This,"  said  the  poet,  "  is  what  I  call  my 
den." 

Wayne,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  sidled 
around  the  walls.  It  was  almost  bare  of  fur- 
niture ;  what  there  was  appeared  to  be  of  the 
slab  variety. 

"  I  call  my  house  the  house  beautiful,"  mur- 
mured Guilford  with  his  large,  sweet  smile. 
"  Beauty  is  simplicity ;  beauty  is  unconscious- 
ness ;  beauty  is  the  child  of  elimination.  A 
single  fly  in  an  empty  room  is  beautiful  to 
me,  Mr.  Wayne." 

"  They  carry  germs,"  muttered  Wayne,  but 
the  poet  did  not  hear  him  and  led  the  way 
to  another  enormous  room,  bare  of  everything 


lole  23 

save  for  eight  thick  and  very  beautiful  Kazak 
rugs  on  the  polished  floor. 

"  My  children's  bedroom,"  he  whispered 
solemnly. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  they  sleep  on  those 
Oriental  rugs !  "  stammered  Wayne. 

"  They  do/'  murmured  the  poet.  The  ten- 
der sweetness  of  his  ample  smile  was  over- 
powering— like  too  much  bay  rum  after  shav- 
ing. "  Sparta,  Mr.  Wayne,  Sparta !  And  the 
result?  My  babes  are  perfect,  physically, 
spiritually.  Elimination  wrought  the  miracle ; 
yonder  they  sleep,  innocent  as  the  Graces,  with 
all  the  windows  open,  clothed  in  moonlight  or 
starlight,  as  the  astronomical  conditions  may 
be.  At  the  break  of  dawn  they  are  afield, 
simply  clothed,  free  limbed,  unhampered  by 
the  tawdry  harness  of  degenerate  civilization. 
And  as  they  wander  through  the  verdure," 
he  added  with  rapt  enthusiasm,  "  plucking 
shy  blossoms,  gathering  simples  and  herbs  and 
vegetables  for  our  bountiful  and  natural  re- 
past, they  sing  as  they  go,  and  every  tremu- 
lous thrill  of  melody  falls  like  balm  on  a  fa- 
ther's heart."  The  overpowering  sweetness  of 
his  smile  drugged  Wayne.  Presently  he  edged 
toward  the  door,  and  the  poet  followed,  a 


24  lole 

dreamy  radiance  on  his  features  as  though 
emanating  from  sacred  inward  meditation. 

They  sat  down  on  the  veranda ;  Wayne 
fumbled  for  his  cigar-case,  but  his  unnerved 
fingers  fell  away ;  he  dared  not  smoke. 

"  About — about  that  business  matter/'  he 
ventured  feebly ;  but  the  poet  raised  his  plump 
white  hand. 

"  You  are  my  guest,"  he  said  graciously. 
"  While  you  are  my  guest  nothing  shall  in- 
trude to  cloud  our  happiness." 

Perplexed,  almost  muddled,  Wayne  strove 
in  vain  to  find  a  reason  for  the  elimination 
of  the  matter  that  had  interrupted  his  cruise 
and  brought  him  to  Rose-Cross,  the  maddest 
yachtsman  on  the  Atlantic.  Why  should  Guil- 
ford  forbid  the  topic  as  though  its  discussion 
were  painful  to  Wayne  ? 

"  He  always  gets  the  wrong  end  foremost, 
as  Briggs  said,"  thought  the  young  man.  "  I 
wonder  where  the  deuce  Briggs  can  be?  I'm 
no  match  for  this  bunch." 

His  thoughts  halted ;  he  became  aware  that 
the  poet  was  speaking  in  a  rich,  resonant  voice, 
and  he  listened  in  an  attitude  of  painful  po- 
liteness. 

"  It's  the  little  things  that  are  most  pre- 


lole  25 

cious,"  the  poet  was  saying,  and  pinched  the 
air  with  forefinger  and  thumb  and  pursed  up 
his  lips  as  though  to  whistle  some  saccharine 
air. 

"  The  little  things,"  he  continued,  delicately 
perforating  the  atmosphere  as  though  selecting 
a  diatom. 

"  Big  things  go,  too/'  ventured  Wayne. 

"  No,"  said  the  poet ;  "  no — or  rather  they 
do  go,  in  a  certain  sense,  for  every  little  thing 
is  precious,  and  therefore  little  things  are  big ! 
— big  with  portent,  big  in  value.  Do  you  fol- 
low me,  Mr.  Wayne?" 

Wayne's  fascinated  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
poet.  The  latter  picked  out  another  atom  from 
the  atmosphere  and  held  it  up  for  Mr.  Wayne's 
inspection ;  and  while  that  young  man's  eyes 
protruded  the  poet  rambled  on  and  on  until 
the  melody  of  his  voice  became  a  ceaseless 
sound,  a  vague,  sustained  monotone,  which 
seemed  to  bore  into  Wayne's  brain  until  his 
legs  twitched  with  a  furious  desire  for  flight. 

When  he  obtained  command  of  himself  the 
poet  was  saying,  "  It  is  my  hour  for  with- 
drawal. It  were  insincere  and  artificial  to  ask 
your  indulgence " 

He  rose  to  his  rotund  height. 


26  lole 

"  You  are  due  to  sit  in  your  cage,"  stam- 
mered Wayne,  comprehending. 

"  My  den,"  corrected  the  poet,  saturating 
the  air  with  the  sweetness  of  his  smile. 

Wayne  arose.  "  About  that  business — "  he 
began  desperately;  but  the  poet's  soft,  heavy 
hand  hovered  in  mid-air,  and  Wayne  sat  down 
so  suddenly  that  when  his  eyes  recovered  their 
focus  the  poet  had  disappeared. 

A  benumbed  resentment  struggled  within 
him  for  adequate  expression;  he  hitched  his 
chair  about  to  command  a  view  of  the  mead- 
ow, then  sat  motionless,  hypnotized  by  the 
view.  Eight  girls,  clad  in  pink  blouses  and 
trousers,  golden  hair  twisted  up,  decorated 
the  landscape.  Some  were  kneeling,  filling 
baskets  of  woven,  scented  grasses  with  wild 
strawberries ;  some  were  wading  the  branches 
of  the  meadow  brook,  searching  for  trout  with 
grass-woven  nets ;  some  picked  early  peas ; 
two  were  playing  a  lightning  set  at  tennis. 
And  in  the  center  of  everything  that  was  go- 
ing on  was  Briggs,  perfectly  at  ease,  making 
himself  agreeably  at  home. 

The  spectacle  of  Briggs  among  the  Hama- 
dryads appeared  to  paralyze  Wayne. 

Then  an   immense,   intense   resentment  set 


lole  2  7 

every  nerve  in  him  tingling.  Briggs,  his 
friend,  his  confidential  business  adviser,  his  in- 
dispensable alter  ego,  had  abandoned  him  to 
be  tormented  by  this  fat,  saccharine  poet — 
abandoned  him  while  he,  Briggs,  made  him- 
self popular  with  eight  of  the  most  amazingly 
bewitching  maidens  mortal  man  might  marvel 
on !  The  meanness  stung  Wayne  till  he 
jumped  to  his  feet  and  strode  out  into  the  sun- 
shine, menacing  eyes  fastened  on  Briggs. 

"  Now  wouldn't  that  sting  you ! "  he 
breathed  fiercely,  turning  up  his  trousers  and 
stepping  gingerly  across  the  brook. 

Whether  or  not  Briggs  saw  him  coming 
and  kept  sidling  away  he  could  not  determine ; 
he  did  not  wish  to  shout;  he  kept  passing 
pretty  girls  and  taking  off  his  hat,  and  fol- 
lowing Briggs  about,  but  he  never  seemed  to 
come  any  nearer  to  Briggs ;  Briggs  always  ap- 
peared in  the  middle  distance,  flitting  genially 
from  girl  to  girl ;  and  presently  the  absurdity 
of  his  performance  struck  Wayne,  and  he  sat 
down  on  the  bank  of  the  brook,  too  mad  to 
think.  There  was  a  pretty  girl  picking  straw- 
berries near-by ;  he  rose,  took  off  his  hat  to 
her,  and  sat  down  again.  She  was  one  of 
those  graceful,  clean-limbed,  creamy-skinned 


28  lole 

creatures  described  by  Briggs;  her  hair  was 
twisted  up  into  a  heavy,  glistening  knot,  show- 
ing the  back  of  a  white  neck ;  her  eyes  matched 
the  sky  and  her  lips  the  berries  she  occasionally 
bit  into  or  dropped  to  the  bottom  of  her  woven 
basket. 

Once  or  twice  she  looked  up  fearlessly  at 
Wayne  as  her  search  for  berries  brought  her 
nearer;  and  Wayne  forgot  the  perfidy  of 
Briggs  in  an  effort  to  look  politely  amiable. 

Presently  she  straightened  up  where  she  was 
kneeling  in  the  long  grass  and  stretched  her 
arms.  Then,  still  kneeling,  she  gazed  curi- 
ously at  Wayne  with  all  the  charm  of  a 
friendly  wild  thing  unafraid. 

"  Shall  we  play  tennis  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Wayne,  startled. 

"  Come,  then/'  she  said,  picking  up  her  bas- 
ket in  one  hand  and  extending  the  other  to 
Wayne. 

He  took  the  fresh,  cool  fingers,  and  turned 
scarlet.  Once  his  glance  sneaked  toward 
Briggs,  but  that  young  man  was  absorbed  in 
fishing  for  brook  trout  with  a  net !  Oh,  ye 
little  fishes!  with  a  net! 

Wayne's  brain  seemed  to  be  swarming  with 
glittering  pink-winged  thoughts  all  singing. 


lole  29 

He  walked  on  air,  holding  tightly  to  the  hand 
of  his  goddess,  seeing  nothing  but  a  blur  of 
green  and  sunshine.  Then  a  clean-cut  idea 
stabbed  him  like  a  stiletto :  was  this  Vanessa 
or  lole?  And,  to  his  own  astonishment,  he 
asked  her  quite  naturally. 

"lole,"  she  said,  laughing.     "Why?" 

"  Thank  goodness,"  he  said  irrationally. 

"  But  why  ?  "  she  persisted  curiously. 

"  Briggs — Briggs — "  he  stammered,  and  got 
no  further.  Perplexed,  his  goddess  walked 
on,  thoughtful,  pure-lidded  eyes  searching 
some  reasonable  interpretation  for  the  phrase, 
"  Briggs — Briggs."  But  as  Wayne  gave  her 
no  aid,  she  presently  dismissed  the  problem, 
and  bade  him  select  a  tennis  bat. 

"  I  do  hope  you  play  well,"  she  said.  Her 
hope  was  comparatively  vain;  she  batted 
Wayne  around  the  court,  drove  him  wildly 
from  corner  to  corner,  stampeded  him  with 
volleys,  lured  him  with  lobs,  and  finally  left 
him  reeling  dizzily  about,  while  she  came 
around  from  behind  the  net,  saying,  "  It's  all 
because  you  have  no  tennis  shoes.  Come ;  we'll 
rest  under  the  trees  and  console  ourselves  with 
chess." 

Under   a  group  of  huge   silver  beeches   a 


3O  lole 

stone  chess-table  was  set  embedded  in  the 
moss ;  and  lole  indolently  stretched  herself  out 
on  one  side,  chin  on  hands,  while  Wayne 
sorted  weather-beaten  basalt  and  marble  chess- 
men which  lay  in  a  pile  under  the  tree. 

She  chatted  on  without  the  faintest  trace 
of  self-consciousness  the  while  he  arranged 
the  pieces ;  then  she  began  to  move.  He 
took  a  long  time  between  each  move;  but 
no  sooner  did  he  move  than,  still  talking, 
she  extended  her  hand  and  shoved  her  piece 
into  place  without  a  fraction  of  a  second's 
hesitation. 

When  she  had  mated  him  twice,  and  he  was 
still  gazing  blankly  at  the  mess  into  which 
she  had  driven  his  forces,  she  sat  up  sideways, 
gathering  her  slim  ankles  into  one  hand,  and 
cast  about  her  for  something  to  do,  eyes  wan- 
dering over  the  sunny  meadow. 

"  We  had  horses,"  she  mused ;  "  we  rode 
like  demons,  bareback,  until  trouble  came." 

"Trouble?" 

"  Oh,  not  trouble — poverty.  So  our  horses 
had  to  go.  What  shall  we  do — you  and  I  ?  " 
There  was  something  so  subtly  sweet,  so  ex- 
quisitely innocent  in  the  coupling  of  the  pro- 
nouns that  a  thrill  passed  completely  through 


lole  3 1 

Wayne,  and  probably  came  out  on  the  other 
side. 

"  I  know  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  he  said, 
drawing  a  note-book  and  a  pencil  from  his 
pocket  and  beginning  to  write,  holding  it  so 
she  could  see. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  look  over  your  shoul- 
der ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Please." 

She  did;  and  it  affected  his  penmanship  so 
that  the  writing  grew  wabbly.  Still  she  could 
read: 

(Telegram) 

To  SAILING  MASTER,  YACHT  THENDARA,  BAR 

HARBOR  : 

Put  boat  out  of  commission.  I  may  be  away 
all  summer.  WAYNE. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  station  ? "  asked 
Wayne,  turning  to  look  into  her  eyes. 

"Only  five  miles,"  she  said.  "Til  walk 
with  you  if  you  like.  Shall  I  ?  " 


IV 


EALTH,"  observed  the  poet, 
waving  his  heavy  white  hand, 
"  is  a  figure  of  speech,  Mr. 
Wayne.  Only  by  the  process 
of  elimination  can  one  arrive  at  the  exqui- 
site simplicity  of  poverty — care-free  poverty. 
Even  a  single  penny  is  a  burden — the  flaw  in 
the  marble,  the  fly  in  the  amber  of  perfection. 
Cast  it  away  and  enter  Eden!"  And  join- 
ing thumb  and  forefinger,  he  plucked  a  figura- 
tive copper  from  the  atmosphere,  tossed  it 
away,  and  wiped  his  fingers  on  his  handker- 
chief. 

"  But — "  began  Wayne  uneasily. 
32 


lole  33 

"  Try  it,"  smiled  the  poet,  diffusing  sweet- 
ness ;  "  try  it.  Dismiss  all  thoughts  of  money 
from  your  mind." 

"  I  do,"  said  Wayne,  somewhat  relieved. 
"  I  thought  you  meant  for  me  to  chuck  my 
securities  overboard  and  eat  herbs." 

"  Not  in  your  case — no,  not  in  your  case. 
/  can  do  that;  I  have  done  it.  No,  your 
sacred  mission  is  simply  to  forget  that  you 
are  wealthy.  That  is  a  very  precious  thought, 
Mr.  Wayne — remain  a  Croesus  and  forget  it ! 
Not  to  eliminate  your  wealth,  but  eliminate  all 
thought  of  it.  Very,  very  precious." 

"  Well,  I  never  think  about  things  like  that 
except  at  a  directors'  meeting,"  blurted  out 
the  young  fellow.  "  Perhaps  it's  because  I've 
never  had  to  think  about  it." 

The  poet  sighed  so  sweetly  that  the  atmos- 
phere seemed  to  drip  with  the  saccharine  in- 
jection. 

"  I  wish,"  ventured  Wayne,  "  that  you 
would  let  me  mention  the  subject  of  busi- 
ness " — the  poet  shook  his  head  indulgently 
— "  just  to  say  that  I'm  not  going  to  fore- 
close." He  laid  a  packet  of  legal  papers  in 
the  poet's  hand. 

"Hush,"    smiled    Guilford,    "this    is    not 


34  lole 

seemly  in  the  house  beautiful.  .  .  .  What 
was  it  you  said,  Mr.  Wayne  ?  " 

"I?  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  just  wanted 
— wanted  to  stay  here — be  your  guest,  if  you'll 
let  me,"  he  caid  honestly.  "  I  was  cruising — 
I  didn't  understand — Briggs — Briggs — "  He 
stuck. 

"  Yes,  Briggs,"  softly  suggested  the  poet, 
spraying  the  night  air  with  more  sweetness. 

"  Briggs  has  spoken  to  you  about — about 
your  daughter  Vanessa.  You  see,  Briggs  is 
my  closest  friend  ;  his  happiness  is — er — im- 
portant to  me.  I  want  to  see  Briggs  happy; 
that's  why  I  want  to  stay  here,  just  to  see 
Briggs  happy.  I — I  love  Briggs.  You  under- 
stand me,  don't  you,  Mr.  Guilf ord  ?  " 

The  poet  breathed  a  dulcet  breath.  "  Per- 
fectly," he  murmured.  "  The  contemplation 
of  Mr.  Briggs'  happiness  eliminates  all 
thoughts  of  self  within  you.  By  this  process 
of  elimination  you  arrive  at  happiness  your- 
self. Ah,  the  thought  is  a  very  precious  one, 
my  young  friend,  for  by  elimination  only  can 
we  arrive  at  perfection.  Thank  you  for  the 
thought;  thank  you.  You  have  given  me  a 
very,  very  precious  thought  to  cherish." 

"  I — I  have  been  here  a  week,"  muttered 


lole  35 

Wayne.  "  I  thought — perhaps — my  welcome 
might  be  outworn " 

"  In  the  house  beautiful/'  murmured  the 
poet,  rising  and  waving  his  heavy  white  hand 
at  the  open  door,  "  welcome  is  eternal."  He 
folded  his  arms  with  difficulty,  for  he  was 
stout,  and  one  hand  clutched  the  legal  papers ; 
his  head  sank.  In  profound  meditation  he 
wandered  away  into  the  shadowy  house,  leav- 
ing Wayne  sitting  on  the  veranda  rail,  eyes 
fixed  on  a  white  shape  dimly  seen  moving 
through  the  moonlit  meadows  below.  Briggs 
sauntered  into  sight  presently,  his  arms  full 
of  flowers. 

"  Get  me  a  jug  of  water,  will  you  ?  Vanessa 
has  been  picking  these  and  she  sent  me  back 
to  fix  'em.  Hurry,  man !  She  is  waiting  for 
me  in  the  garden."  Wayne  gazed  earnestly 
at  his  friend. 

"  So  you  have  done  it,  have  you,  Stuyve  ?  " 

"  Done  what  ?  "  demanded  Briggs,  blushing. 

"  It." 

"  If  you  mean,"  he  said  with  dignity,  "  that 
I've  asked  the  sweetest  girl  on  earth  to  marry 
me,  I  have.  And  I'm  the  happiest  man  on  the 
footstool,  too.  Good  Heaven,  George,"  he 
broke  out,  "  if  you  knew  the  meaning  of  love ! 


36  lole 

if  you  could  for  one  second  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  beauty  of  her  soul !  Why,  man  of  sor- 
did clay  that  I  was — creature  of  club  and 
claret  and  turtle — like  you " 

"  Drop  it !  "  said  Wayne  somberly. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  George.  We  were  beasts 
— and  you  are  yet.  But  my  base  clay  is  trans- 
muted, spiritualized ;  my  soul  is  awake,  travel- 
ing, toiling  toward  the  upward  heights  where 
hers  sits  enthroned.  When  I  think  of  what  I 
was,  and  what  you  still  are " 

Wayne  rose  exasperated : 

"  Do  you  think  your  soul  is  doing  the  only 
upward  hustling  ?  "  he  said  hotly. 

Briggs,  clasping  his  flowers  to  his  breast, 
gazed  out  over  them  at  Wayne. 

"  You  don't  mean " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Wayne.  "I  may  be 
crazy,  but  I  know  something,"  with  which 
paradox  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked 
into  the  moonlit  meadow  toward  that  dim, 
white  form  moving  through  the  dusk. 

"  I  wondered,"  she  said,  "  whether  you  were 
coming,"  as  he  stepped  through  the  long,  fra- 
grant grass  to  her  side. 

"You  might  have  wondered  if  I  had  not 
come,"  he  answered. 


lole  37 

"  Yes,  that  is  true.  This  moonlight  is  too 
wonderful  to  miss/'  she  added  without  a  trace 
of  self-consciousness. 

"  It  was  for  you  I  came." 

"  Couldn't  you  find  my  sisters  ?  "  she  asked 
innocently. 

He  did  not  reply.  Presently  she  stumbled 
over  a  hummock,  recovered  her  poise  without 
comment,  and  slipped  her  hand  into  his  with 
unconscious  confidence. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  studying 
to-day  ?  "  she  asked. 

"What?" 

"  That  curious  phycomycetous  fungus  that 
produces  resting-spores  by  the  conjugation  of 
two  similar  club-shaped  hyphse,  and  in  which 
conidia  also  occur.  It's  fascinating." 

After  a  silence  he  said : 

"  What  would  you  think  of  me  if  I  told  you 
that  I  do  not  comprehend  a  single  word  of 
what  you  have  just  told  me  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  she  asked,  astonished. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  dropping  her  hand. 
She  wondered,  vaguely  distressed;  and  he 
went  on  presently :  "  As  a  plain  matter  of  fact, 
I  don't  know  much.  It's  an  astonishing  dis- 
covery for  me,  but  it's  a  fact  that  I  am  not 


38  lole 

your  mental,  physical,  or  spiritual  equal.  In 
sheer,  brute  strength  perhaps  I  am,  and  I  am 
none  too  certain  of  that,  either.  But,  and  I 
say  it  to  my  shame,  I  can  not  follow  you ;  I 
am  inferior  in  education,  in  culture,  in  fine 
instinct,  in  mental  development.  You  chatter 
in  a  dozen  languages  to  your  sisters :  my 
French  appals  a  Paris  cabman ;  you  play  any 
instrument  I  ever  heard  of :  the  guitar  is  my 
limit,  the  fandango  my  repertoire.  As  for 
alert  intelligence,  artistic  comprehension,  abil- 
ity to  appreciate,  I  can  not  make  the  running 
with  you ;  I  am  outclassed — hopelessly.  Now, 
if  this  is  all  true — and  I  have  spoken  the 
wretched  truth — what  can  a  man  like  me  have 
to  say  for  himself  ?  " 

Her  head  was  bent,  her  fair  face  was 
in  shadow.  She  strayed  on  a  little  way, 
then,  finding  herself  alone,  turned  and  looked 
back  at  him  where  he  stood.  For  a  mo- 
ment they  remained  motionless,  looking  at 
one  another,  then,  as  on  some  sweet  impulse, 
she  came  back  hastily  and  looked  into  his 
eyes. 

"  I  do  not  feel  as  you  do/'  she  said ;  "  you 
are  very — good — company.  I  am  not  all  you 
say;  I  know  very  little.  Listen.  It — it  dis- 


lole  39 

tresses  me  to  have  you  think  I  hold  you — 
lightly.  Truly  we  are  not  apart." 

"  There  is  but  one  thing  that  can  join  us." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Love." 

Her  pure  gaze  did  not  falter  nor  her  eyes 
droop.  Curiously  regarding  him,  she  seemed 
immersed  in  the  solution  of  the  problem  as 
he  had  solved  it. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  With  all  my  soul — such  as  it  is,  with  all 
my  heart,  with  every  thought,  every  instinct, 
every  breath  I  draw." 

She  considered  him  with  fearless  eyes ;  the 
beauty  of  them  was  all  he  could  endure. 

"  You  love  me  ?  "  she  repeated. 

He  bent  his  head,  incapable  of  speech. 

"  You  wish  me  to  love  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  utterly  unable  to  move 
his  lips. 

"  How  do  you  wish  me  to  love  you  ?  " 

He  opened  his  arms;  she  stepped  forward, 
close  to  him. 

Then  their  lips  met. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  faintly,  "  I  did  not  know 
it — it  was  so  sweet." 

And  as  her  head  fell  back  on  his  arm  about 


40  lole 

her  neck  she  looked  up  at  him  full  of  wonder 
at  this  new  knowledge  he  had  taught  her, 
marvelous,  unsuspected,  divine  in  its  simplic- 
ity. Then  the  first  delicate  blush  that  ever 
mounted  her  face  spread,  tinting  throat  and 
forehead ;  she  drew  his  face  down  to  her  own. 

The  poet  paced  the  dim  veranda,  arms 
folded,  head  bent.  But  his  glance  was  side- 
ways and  full  of  intelligence  as  it  included 
two  vague  figures  coming  slowly  back 
through  the  moon-drenched  meadow. 

"  By  elimination  we  arrive  at  perfection," 
he  mused ;  "  and  perfection  is  success.  There 
remain  six  more,"  he  added  irrelevantly,  "  but 
they're  young  yet.  Patience,  subtle  patience 
— and  attention  to  the  little  things."  He 
pinched  a  morsel  of  air  out  of  the  darkness, 
examined  it  and  released  it. 

"The  little  things,"  he  repeated;  "that  is 
a  very  precious  thought.  ...  I  believe  the 
sea  air  may  agree  with  me — now  and  then." 

And  he  wandered  off  into  his  "  den  "  and 
unlocked  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  and  took  out 
a  bundle  of  legal  papers,  and  tore  them  slowly, 
carefully,  into  very  small  pieces. 


HE  double  wedding  at  the  Church 
of  Sainte  Cicindella  was  pretty 
and  sufficiently  fashionable  to  in- 
convenience traffic  on  Fifth  Ave- 
nue. Partly  from  loyalty,  partly  from  curios- 
ity, the  clans  of  Wayne  and  Briggs,  with  their 
offshoots  and  social  adherents,  attended;  and 
they  saw  Briggs  and  Wayne  on  their  best  be- 
havior, attended  by  Sudbury  Grey  and  Win- 
sted  Forest;  and  they  saw  two  bridal  visions 
of  loveliness,  attended  by  six  additional  sister 
visions  as  bridesmaids ;  and  they  saw  the  poet, 
agitated  with  the  holy  emotions  of  a  father, 
now  almost  unmanned,  now  rallying,  spraying 

41 


42  lole 

the  hushed  air  with  sweetness.  They  saw 
clergymen  and  a  bishop,  and  the  splendor  of 
stained  glass  through  which  ushers  tiptoed. 
And  they  heard  the  subdued  rustling  of  skirts 
and  the  silken  stir,  and  the  great  organ 
breathing  over  Eden,  and  a  single  artistically- 
modulated  sob  from  the  poet.  A  good  many 
other  things  they  heard  and  saw,  especially 
those  of  the  two  clans  who  were  bidden  to 
the  breakfast  at  Wayne's  big  and  splendid 
house  on  the  southwest  corner  of  Seventy- 
ninth  Street  and  Madison  Avenue. 

For  here  they  were  piped  to  breakfast  by 
the  boatswain  of  Wayne's  big  seagoing  yacht, 
the  Thendara — on  which  brides  and  grooms 
were  presently  to  embark  for  Cairo  via  the 
Azores — and  speeches  were  said  and  tears  shed 
into  goblets  glimmering  with  vintages  worth 
prayerful  consideration. 

And  in  due  time  two  broughams,  drawn  by 
dancing  horses,  with  the  azure  ribbons  aflutter 
from  the  head-stalls,  bore  away  two  very  beau- 
tiful and  excited  brides  and  two  determined, 
but  entirely  rattled,  grooms.  And  after  that 
several  relays  of  parents  fraternized  with  the 
poet  and  six  daughters,  and  the  clans  of 
Briggs  and  of  Wayne  said  a  number  of  agree- 


lole  43 

able  things  to  anybody  who  cared  to  listen ; 
and  as  everybody  did  listen,  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  talk — more  talk  in  a  minute  than  the 
sisters  of  lole  had  heard  in  all  their  several 
limited  and  innocently  natural  existences.  So 
it  confused  them,  not  with  its  quality,  but  its 
profusion ;  and  the  champagne  made  their 
cheeks  feel  as  though  the  soft  peachy  skin 
fitted  too  tight,  and  a  number  of  persistent 
musical  instruments  were  being  tuned  in  their 
little  ears ;  and,  not  yet  thoroughly  habituated 
to  any  garments  except  pink  sunbonnets  and 
pajamas,  their  straight  fronts  felt  too  tight, 
and  the  tops  of  their  stockings  pulled,  and 
they  balanced  badly  on  their  high  heels,  and 
Aphrodite  and  Cybele,  being  too  snugly  laced, 
retired  to  rid  themselves  of  their  first  corsets. 

The  remaining  four,  Lissa,  now  eighteen; 
Dione,  fifteen;  Philodice,  fourteen,  and  Chlo- 
rippe,  thirteen,  found  the  missing  Pleiads  in 
the  great  library,  joyously  donning  their  rose- 
silk  lounging  pajamas,  while  two  parlor  maids 
brought  ices  from  the  wrecked  feast  below. 

So  they,  too,  flung  from  them  crinkling 
silk  and  diaphanous  lace,  high-heel  shoon  and 
the  delicate  body-harness  never  fashioned  for 
free-limbed  dryads  of  the  Rose-Cross  wilds; 


44 


and  they  kept  the  electric  signals  going  for 
ices  and  fruits  and  pitchers  brimming  with 
clear  cold  water  ;  and  they  sat  there  in  a  circle 
like  a  thicket  of  fluttering  pale-pink  roses,  un- 
til below  the  last  guest  had  sped  out  into  the 
unknown  wastes  of  Gotham,  and  the  poet's 
heavy  step  was  on  the  stair. 

The  poet  was  agitated  —  and  like  a  humble 
bicolored  quadruped  of  the  Rose-Cross  wilds, 
which,  when  agitated,  sprays  the  air  —  so  the 
poet,  laboring  obesely  under  his  emotion, 
smiled  with  a  sweetness  so  intolerable  that 
the  air  seemed  to  be  squirted  full  of  saccharin- 
ity  to  the  point  of  plethoric  saturation. 

"  My  lambs,"  he  murmured,  fat  hands 
clasped  and  dropped  before  him  as  straight 
as  his  rounded  abdomen  would  permit  ;  "  my 
babes  !  " 

"  Do  you  think,"  suggested  Aphrodite,  busy 
with  her  ice,  "  that  we  are  going  to  enjoy  this 
winter  in  Mr.  Wayne's  house?" 

"  Enjoyment,"  breathed  the  poet  in  an  over- 
whelming gush  of  sweetness,  "  is  not  in 
houses;  it  is  in  one's  soul.  What  is  wealth? 
Everything!  Therefore  it  is  of  no  value. 
What  is  poverty?  Nothing!  And,  as  it  is 
the  little  things  that  are  the  most  precious, 


lole  45 

so  nothing,  which  is  less  than  the  very  least, 
is  precious  beyond  price.  Thank  you  for  lis- 
tening; thank  you  for  understanding.  Bless 
you." 

And  he  wandered  away,  almost  asphyxiated 
with  his  emotions. 

u  I  mean  to  have  a  gay  winter — if  I  can 
ever  get  used  to  being  laced  in  and  pulled  over 
by  those  dreadful  garters/'  observed  Aphro- 
dite, stretching  her  smooth  young  limbs  in 
comfort. 

"  I  suppose  there  would  be  trouble  if  we 
wore  our  country  clothes  on  Broadway, 
wouldn't  there?"  asked  Lissa  wistfully. 

Chlorippe,  aged  thirteen,  kicked  off  her  san- 
dals and  stretched  her  pretty  snowy  feet: 
"  They  were  never  in  the  world  made  to  fit 
into  high-heeled  shoes,"  she  declared  pen- 
sively, widening  her  little  rosy  toes. 

"  But  we  might  as  well  get  used  to  all  these 
things,"  sighed  Philodice,  rolling  over  among 
the  cushions,  a  bunch  of  hothouse  grapes  sus- 
pended above  her  pink  mouth.  She  ate  one, 
looked  at  Dione,  and  yawned. 

"  I'm  going  to  practise  wearing  'em  an  hour 
a  day,"  said  Aphrodite,  "because  I  mean  to 
go  to  the  theater.  It's  worth  the  effort.  Be- 


46  lole 

sides,  if  we  just  sit  here  in  the  house  all  day 
asking  each  other  Greek  riddles,  we  will  never 
see  anybody  until  lole  and  Vanessa  come  back 
from  their  honeymoon  and  give  teas  and  din- 
ners for  all  sorts  of  interesting  young  men." 

"  Oh,  the  attractive  young  men  I  have  seen 
in  these  few  days  in  New  York !  "  exclaimed 
Lissa.  "  Would  you  believe  it,  the  first  day 
I  walked  out  with  George  Wayne  and  lole,  I 
was  perfectly  bewildered  and  enchanted  to  see 
so  many  delightful-looking  men.  And  by  and 
by  lole  missed  me,  and  George  came  back  and 
found  me  standing  entranced  on  the  corner  of 
Fifth  Avenue ;  and  I  said,  "  Please  don't  dis- 
turb me,  George,  because  I  am  only  standing 
here  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  so  many  agreeable- 
looking  men.  But  he  acted  so  queerly  about 
it."  She  ended  with  a  little  sigh.  "How- 
ever, I  love  George,  of  course,  even  if  he  does 
bore  me.  I  wonder  where  they  are  now — the 
bridal  pairs  ?  " 

"  I  wonder,"  mused  Philodice,  "  whether 
they  have  any  children  by  this  time  ?  " 

"Not  yet,"  explained  Aphrodite.  "But 
they'll  probably  have  some  when  they  return. 
I  understand  it  takes  a  good  many  weeks  to 


lole  47 

"  To  find  new  children,"  nodded  Chlorippe 
confidently.  "  I  suppose  they've  hidden  the 
cunning  little  things  somewhere  on  the  yacht, 
and  it's  like  hunt  the  thimble  and  lots  and  lots 
of  fun."  And  she  distributed  six  oranges. 

Lissa  was  not  so  certain  of  that,  but,  dis- 
cussing the  idea  with  Cybele,  and  arriving  at 
no  conclusion,  devoted  herself  to  the  large 
juicy  orange  with  more  satisfaction,  conscious 
that  the  winter's  outlook  was  bright  for  them 
all  and  full  of  the  charming  mystery  of  an- 
ticipations so  glittering  yet  so  general  that  she 
could  form  not  even  the  haziest  ideas  of  their 
wonderful  promise.  And  so,  sucking  the  sun- 
lit pulp  of  their  oranges,  they  were  content 
to  live,  dream,  and  await  fulfilment  under  the 
full  favor  of  a  Heaven  which  had  never  yet 
sent  them  aught  but  happiness  beneath  the 
sun. 


VI 


EITHER  Lethbridge  nor  Harrow 
— lately  exceedingly  important 
undergraduates  at  Harvard  and 
now  twin  nobodies  in  the  em- 
ployment of  the  great  Occidental  Fidelity  and 
Trust  Company — neither  of  these  young  men, 
I  say,  had  any  particular  business  at  the  New 
Arts  Theater  that  afternoon. 

For  the  play  was  Barnard  Haw's  Attitudes, 
the  performance  was  private  and  intensely  in- 
tellectual, the  admission  by  invitation  only, 
and  between  the  acts  there  was  supposed  to 
be  a  general  causerie  among  the  gifted  individ- 
uals of  the  audience. 

Why  Stanley  West,  president  of  the  Occi- 
48 


lole  49 

dental  Trust,  should  have  presented  to  his  two 
young  kinsmen  the  tickets  inscribed  with  his 
own  name  was  a  problem,  unless  everybody 
else,  including  the  elevator  boys,  had  politely 
declined  the  offer. 

"  That's  probably  the  case,"  observed  Leth- 
bridge.  "Do  we  go?" 

"  Art,"  said  Harrow,  "  will  be  on  the  loose 
among  that  audience.  And  if  anybody  can 
speak  to  anybody  there,  we'll  get  spoken  to 
just  as  if  we  were  sitting  for  company,  and 
first  we  know  somebody  will  ask  us  what  Art 
really  is." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  a  place  full  of  atmosphere," 
suggested  Lethbridge.  "  I've  seen  almost  ev- 
erything— the  Cafe  Jaune,  and  Chinatown, 
and — you  remember  that  joint  at  Tangier? 
But  I've  never  seen  atmosphere.  I  don't  care 
how  thin  it  is ;  I  just  want  to  say  that  I've 
seen  it  when  the  next  girl  throws  it  all  over 
me."  And  as  Harrow  remained  timid,  he 
added :  "  We  won't  have  to  climb  across  the 
footlights  and  steal  a  curl  from  the  author,  be- 
cause he's  already  being  sheared  in  England. 
There's  nothing  to  scare  you." 

Normally,  however,  they  were  intensely 
afraid  of  Art  except  at  their  barbers',  and 


50  lole 

they  had  heard,  in  various  ways  as  vague  as 
Broad  Street  rumors,  something  concerning 
these  gatherings  of  the  elect  at  the  New  Arts 
Theater  on  Saturday  afternoons,  where  unself- 
ish reformers  produced  plays  for  Art's  sake  as 
a  rebuke  to  managers  who  declined  to  produce 
that  sort  of  play  for  anybody's  sake. 

"  I'll  bet/'  said  Harrow,  "  that  some  thrifty 
genius  sent  Stanley  West  those  tickets  in  a 
desperate  endeavor  to  amalgamate  the  aristoc- 
racies of  wealth  and  intellect ! — as  though  you 
could  shake  'em  up  as  you  shake  a  cocktail ! 
As  though  you'd  catch  your  Uncle  Stanley 
wearing  his  richest  Burgundy  flush,  sitting  in 
the  orchestra  and  talking  Arr  Noovo  to  a 
young  thing  with  cheek-bones  who'd  pinch  him 
into  a  cocked  hat  for  a  contribution  between 
the  acts !  " 

"  Still,"  said  Lethbridge,  "  even  Art  requires 
a  wad  to  pay  its  license.  Isn't  West  the  foxy 
Freddie !  Do  you  suppose,  if  we  go,  they'll 
sting  us  for  ten?  " 

"  They'll  probably  take  up  a  collection  for 
the  professor,"  said  Harrow  gloomily.  "  Bet- 
ter come  to  the  club  and  give  the  tickets  to 
the  janitor." 

"  Oh,  that's  putting  it  all  over  Art !     If  any- 


lole  5 1 

body  with  earnest  eyes  tries  to  speak  to  us  we 
can  call  a  policeman." 

"  Well,"  said  Harrow,  "  on  your  promise  to 
keep  your  mouth  shut  I'll  go  with  you.  If 
you  open  it  they'll  discover  you're  an  appraiser 
and  I'm  a  broker,  and  then  they'll  think  we're 
wealthy,  because  there'd  be  no  other  reason  for 
our  being  there,  and  they'll  touch  us  both  for 
a  brace  of  come-ons,  and " 

"Perhaps,"  interrupted  the  other,  "we'll 
be  .fortunate  enough  to  sit  next  to  a  peach! 
And  as  it's  the  proper  thing  there  to  talk  to 
your  neighbor,  the  prospect — er — needn't  jar 
you." 

There  was  a  silence  as  they  walked  up-town, 
which  lasted  until  they  entered  their  lodgings. 
And  by  that  time  they  had  concluded  to  go. 


VII 


O  they  went,  having  nothing  bet- 
ter on  hand,  and  at  two  o'clock 
they  sidled  into  the  squatty  lit- 
tle theater,  shyly  sought  their 
reserved  seats  and  sat  very  still,  abashed  in 
the  presence  of  the  massed  intellects  of  Man- 
hattan. 

When  Clarence  Guilford,  the  Poet  of  Sim- 
plicity, followed  by  six  healthy,  vigorous 
young  daughters,  entered  the  middle  aisle  of 
the  New  Arts  Theater,  a  number  of  people 
whispered  in  reverent  recognition :  "  Guilford, 
the  poet!  Those  are  his  daughters.  They 
52 


Me  53 

wear  nothing  but  pink  pajamas  at  home. 
Sh-sh-h-h !  " 

Perhaps  the  poet  heard,  for  he  heard  a  great 
deal  when  absent-minded.  He  paused ;  his  six 
tall  and  blooming  daughters,  two  and  two  be- 
hind him,  very  naturally  paused  also,  because 
the  poet  was  bulky  and  the  aisle  narrow. 

Those  of  the  elect  who  had  recognized  him 
had  now  an  opportunity  to  view  him  at  close 
range ;  young  women  with  expressive  eyes 
leaned  forward,  quivering;  several  earnest 
young  men  put  up  lorgnettes. 

It  was  as  it  should  have  been ;  and  the  poet 
stood  motionless  in  dreamy  abstraction,  until 
an  usher  took  his  coupons  and  turned  down 
seven  seats.  Then  the  six  daughters  filed  in, 
and  the  poet,  slowly  turning  to  survey  the 
house,  started  slightly,  as  though  surprised  to 
find  himself  under  public  scrutiny,  passed  a 
large,  plump  hand  over  his  forehead,  and 
slowly  subsided  into  the  aisle-seat  with  a  smile 
of  whimsical  acquiescence  in  the  knowledge  of 
his  own  greatness. 

"  Who/'  inquired  young  Harrow,  turning 
toward  Lethbridge — "  who  is  that  duck?" 

"  You  can  search  me,"  replied  Lethbridge 
in  a  low  voice,  "  but  for  Heaven's  sake  look 


54 


at  those  girls!  Is  it  right  to  bunch  such 
beauty  and  turn  down  Senators  from  Utah  ?  " 

Harrow's  dazzled  eyes  wandered  over  the 
six  golden  heads  and  snowy  necks,  lovely  as 
six  wholesome  young  goddesses  fresh  from  a 
bath  in  the  Hellespont. 

"  The  —  the  one  next  to  the  one  beside  you/' 
whispered  Lethbridge,  edging  around.  "  I 
want  to  run  away  with  her.  Would  you  mind 
getting  me  a  hansom  ?  " 

"  The  one  next  to  me  has  them  all  pinched 
to  death,"  breathed  Harrow  unsteadily. 
"  Look  !  —  when  she  isn't  looking.  Did  you 
ever  see  such  eyes  and  mouth  —  such  a  superb 
free  poise  -  " 

"  Sh-sh-h-h  !  "  muttered  Lethbridge,  "the 
bell-mule  is  talking  to  them." 

"  Art,"  said  the  poet,  leaning  over  to  look 
along  the  line  of  fragrant,  fresh  young  beauty, 
"  Art  is  an  art."  With  which  epigram  he 
slowly  closed  his  eyes. 

His  daughters  looked  at  him  ;  a  young  wom- 
an expensively  but  not  smartly  gowned  bent 
forward  from  the  row  behind.  Her  attitude 
was  almost  prayerful;  her  eyes  burned. 

"  Art,"  continued  the  poet,  opening  his 
heavy  lids  with  a  large,  sweet  smile,  "  Art 


• »: 


He  paused  ;  his  six  tall  and  blooming  daughters  two  and 
two  behind  him. 


lole  55 

is  above  Art,  but  Art  is  never  below  Art. 
Art,  to  be  Art,  must  be  artless.  That  is  a 
very  precious  thought — very,  very  precious. 
Thank  you  for  understanding  me — thank 
you."  And  he  included  in  his  large  smile 
young  Harrow,  who  had  been  unconsciously 
bending  forward,  hypnotized  by  the  monoto- 
nous resonance  of  the  poet's  deep,  rich  voice. 

Now  that  the  spell  was  broken,  he  sank  back 
in  his  chair,  looking  at  Lethbridge  a  little 
wildly. 

"  Let  me  sit  next — after  the  first  act/'  began 
Lethbridge,  coaxing ;  "  they'll  be  watching  the 
stage  all  the  first  act  and  you  can  look  at  'em 
without  being  rude,  and  they'll  do  the  same 
next  act,  and  I  can  look  at  'em,  and  perhaps 
they'll  ask  us  what  Art  really  is " 

"  Did  you  hear  what  that  man  said  ?  "  inter- 
rupted Harrow,  recovering  his  voice.  "Did 
you?" 

"No;  what?" 

"  Well,  listen  next  time.  And  all  I  have  to 
say  is,  if  that  firing-line,  with  its  battery  of  in- 
nocent blue  eyes,  understands  him,  you  and  I 
had  better  apply  to  the  nearest  night-school 
for  the  rudiments  of  an  education." 

"  Well,  what  did  he  say  ?  "  began  the  other 
10 


56  Me 

uneasily,  when  again  the  poet  bent  forward  to 
address  the  firing-line ;  and  the  lovely  blue  bat- 
tery turned  silently  upon  the  author  of  their 
being. 

"  Art  is  the  result  of  a  complex  mental  atti- 
tude capable  of  producing  concrete  simplicity." 

"  Help !  "  whispered  Harrow,  but  the  poet 
had  caught  his  eye,  and  was  fixing  the  young 
man  with  a  smile  that  held  him  as  sirup  holds 
a  fly. 

"  You  ask  me  what  is  Art,  young  sir  ?  Why 
should  I  not  heed  you  ?  Why  should  I  not  an- 
swer you?  What  artificial  barriers,  falsely 
called  convention,  shall  force  me  to  ignore  the 
mute  eloquence  of  your  questioning  eyes? 
You  ask  me  what  is  Art.  I  will  tell  you ;  it 
is  this!"  And  the  poet,  inverting  his  thumb, 
pressed  it  into  the  air.  Then,  carefully  in- 
specting the  dent  he  had  made  in  the  atmos- 
phere, he  erased  it  with  a  gesture  and  folded 
his  arms,  looking  gravely  at  Harrow,  whose 
fascinated  eyes  protruded. 

Behind  him  Lethbridge  whispered  hoarsely, 
"  I  told  you  how  it  would  be  in  the  New  Arts 
Theater.  I  told  you  a  young  man  alone  was 
likely  to  get  spoken  to.  Now  those  six  girls 
know  you're  a  broker !  " 


Me  57 

"Don't  say  it  so  loud,"  muttered  Harrow 
savagely.  "  I'm  all  right  so  far,  for  I  haven't 
said  a  word." 

"  You'd  better  not,"  returned  the  other.  "  I 
wish  that  curtain  would  go  up  and  stay  up. 
It  will  be  my  turn  to  sit  next  them  after  this 
act,  you  know." 

Harrow  ventured  to  glance  at  the  superb 
young  creature  sitting  beside  him,  and  at  the 
same  instant  she  looked  up  and,  catching  his 
eye,  smiled  in  the  most  innocently  friendly 
fashion — the  direct,  clear-eyed  advance  of  a 
child  utterly  unconscious  of  self. 

"  I  have  never  before  been  in  a  theater,"  she 
said ;  "  have  you  ?  " 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  stammered  Har- 
row when  he  found  his  voice,  "  but  wer e  you 
good  enough  to  speak  to  me?" 

"  Why,  yes !  "  she  said,  surprised  but  amia- 
ble ;  "  shouldn't  I  have  spoken  to  you  ?  " 

"  Indeed — oh,  indeed  you  should !  "  said 
Harrow  hastily,  with  a  quick  glance  at  the 
poet.  The  poet,  however,  appeared  to  be  im- 
mersed in  thought,  lids  partially  closed,  a  be- 
nignant smile  imprinted  on  his  heavy  features. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  breathed  Leth- 
bridge  in  his  ear.  Harrow  calmly  turned  his 


58  lole 

back  on  his  closest  friend  and  gazed  raptur- 
ously at  his  goddess.  And  again  her  bewil- 
dering smile  broke  out  and  he  fairly  blinked 
in  its  glory. 

"  This  is  my  first  play,"  she  said ;  "  I'm  a 
little  excited.  I  hope  I  shall  care  for  it." 

"  Haven't  you  ever  seen  a  play  ?  "  asked 
Harrow,  tenderly  amazed. 

"  Never.  You  see,  we  always  lived  in  the 
country,  and  we  have  always  been  poor  until 
my  sister  lole  married.  And  now  our  father 
has  come  to  live  with  his  new  son-in-law.  So 
that  is  how  we  came  to  be  here  in  New  York." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  did  come,"  said  Harrow 
fervently. 

"  So  are  we.  We  have  never  before  seen 
anything  like  a  large  city.  We  have  never  had 
enough  money  to  see  one.  But  now  that  lole 
is  married,  everything  is  possible.  It  is  all  so 
interesting  for  us — particularly  the  clothing. 
Do  you  like  my  gown  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  dream !  "  stammered  the  infatuated 
youth. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  think  it  is  wonderful 
— but  not  very  comfortable." 

"Doesn't  it  fit?"  he  inquired. 

"  Perfectly ;   that's  the  trouble.      It  is  not 


lole  59 

comfortable.  We  never  before  were  permitted 
to  wear  skirts  and  all  sorts  of  pretty  fluffy 
frills  under  them,  and  such  high  heels,  and 
such  long  stockings,  and  such  tight  lacing — " 
She  hesitated,  then  calmly :  "  But  I  believe 
father  told  us  that  we  are  not  to  mention  our 
pretty  underwear,  though  it's  hard  not  to,  as 
it's  the  first  we  ever  had." 

Harrow  was  past  all  speech. 

"  I  wish  I  had  my  lounging-suit  on,"  she 
said  with  a  sigh  and  a  hitch  of  her  perfectly 
modeled  shoulders. 

"  W — what  sort  of  things  do  you  usually 
dress  in  ?  "  he  ventured. 

"  Why,  in  dress-reform  clothes !  "  she  said, 
laughing.  "  We  never  have  worn  anything 
else." 

"  Bloomers !  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  we  had  trousers  and  blouses 
and  sandals — something  like  the  pink  pajamas 
we  have  for  night-wear  now.  Formerly  we 
wore  nothing  at  night.  I  am  beginning  to 
wonder,  from  the  way  people  look  at  us  when 
we  speak  of  this,  whether  we  were  odd.  But 
all  our  lives  we  have  never  thought  about 
clothing.  However,  I  am  glad  you  like  my 
new  gown,  and  I  fancy  I'll  get  used  to  this 


60  lole 

tight  lacing  in  time.  .  .  .  What  is  your 
name?" 

"  James  Harrow,"  he  managed  to  say,  aware 
of  an  innocence  and  directness  of  thought  and 
speech  which  were  awaking  in  him  faintest  re- 
sponsive echoes.  They  were  the  blessed  echoes 
from  the  dim,  fair  land  of  childhood,  but  he 
did  not  know  it. 

"James  Harrow,"  she  repeated  with  a 
friendly  nod.  "  My  name  is  Lissa — my  first 
name;  the  other  is  Guilford.  My  father  is 
the  famous  poet,  Clarence  Guilford.  He 
named  us  all  after  butterflies — all  my  sisters  " 
— counting  them  on  her  white  fingers  while  her 
eyes  rested  on  him — "  Chlorippe,  twelve  years 
old,  that  pretty  one  next  to  my  father;  then 
Philodice,  thirteen;  Dione,  fourteen;  Aphro- 
dite, fifteen;  Cybele,  the  one  next  to  me,  six- 
teen, and  almost  seventeen ;  and  myself,  seven- 
teen, almost  eighteen.  Besides,  there  is  lole, 
who  married  Mr.  Wayne,  and  Vanessa,  mar- 
ried to  Mr.  Briggs.  They  have  been  off  on 
Mr.  Wayne's  yacht,  the  Thendara,  on  their 
wedding  trip.  Now  you  know  all  about  us. 
Do  you  think  you  would  like  to  know  us  ?  " 

"  Like  to  !     I'd  simply  love  to  !     I " 

"  That  is  very  nice,"  she  said  unembarrassed. 


lole  6 1 

"  I  thought  I  should  like  you  when  I  saw  you 
leaning  over  and  listening  so  reverently  to  fa- 
ther's epigrams.  Then,  besides,  I  had  nobody 
but  my  sisters  to  talk  to.  Oh,  you  can't  im- 
agine how  many  attractive  men  I  see  every 
day  in  New  York — and  I  should  like  to  know 
them  all — and  many  do  look  at  me  as  though 
they  would  like  it,  too;  but  Mr.  Wayne  is  so 
queer,  and  so  are  father  and  Mr.  Briggs — 
about  my  speaking  to  people  in  public  places. 
They  have  told  me  not  to,  but  I — I — thought 
I  would,"  she  ended,  smiling.  "  What  harm 
can  it  do  for  me  to  talk  to  you  ?  " 

"  It's  perfectly  heavenly  of  you " 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?  ,1  wonder  what 
father  thinks  " — turning  to  look ;  then,  resum- 
ing :  "  He  generally  makes  us  stop,  but  I  am 
quite  sure  he  expected  me  to  talk  to  you." 

The  lone  note  of  a  piano  broke  the  thread 
of  the  sweetest,  maddest  discourse  Harrow 
had  ever  listened  to;  the  girl's  cheeks  flushed 
and  she  turned  expectantly  toward  the  cur- 
tained stage.  Again  the  lone  note,  thumped 
vigorously,  sounded  a  stacatto  monotone. 

"  Precious — very  precious,"  breathed  the 
poet,  closing  his  eyes  in  a  sort  of  fatty 
ecstasy. 


VIII 


ARROW  looked  at  his  program, 
then,  leaning  toward  Lissa,  whis- 
pered :  "  That  is  the  overture  to 
Attitudes — the  program  explains 
it :  l  A  series  of  pale  gray  notes  ' — what  the 
deuce ! — '  pale  gray  notes  giving  the  value 
of  the  highest  light  in  which  the  play  is 
pitched  ' — "  He  paused,  aghast. 

"  I  understand,"  whispered  the  girl,  resting 
her  lovely  arm  on  the  chair  beside  him. 
"  Look !  The  curtain  is  rising !  How  my 
heart  beats  !  Does  yours  ?  " 

He  nodded,  unable  to  articulate. 
The  curtain  rose  very,  very  slowly,  upon  the 
first  scene  of  Barnard  Haw's  masterpiece  of 
satire ;  and  the  lovely  firing-line  quivered,  blue 
62 


lole  63 

batteries  opening  very  wide,  lips  half  parted 
in  breathless  anticipation.  And  about  that 
time  Harrow  almost  expired  as  a  soft,  impul- 
sive hand  closed  nervously  over  his. 

And  there,  upon  the  stage,  the  human  spe- 
cies was  delicately  vivisected  in  one  act;  hu- 
man frailty  exposed,  human  motives  detected, 
human  desire  quenched  in  all  the  brilliancy  of 
perverted  epigram  and  the  scalpel  analysis  of 
the  astigmatic.  Life,  love,  and  folly  were  por- 
trayed with  the  remorseless  accuracy  of  an  eye 
doubly  sensitive  through  the  stimulus  of  an  in- 
tellectual strabismus.  Barnard  Haw  at  his 
greatest!  And  how  he  dissected  attitudes; 
the  attitude  assumed  by  the  lover,  the  father, 
the  wife,  the  daughter,  the  mother,  the  mis- 
tress— proving  that  virtue,  per  se,  is  a  pose. 
Attitudes !  How  he  flayed  those  who  assumed 
them.  His  attitude  toward  attitudes  was  re- 
morseless, uncompromising,  inexorable. 

And  the  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act,  its 
gray  and  silver  folds  swaying  in  the  half- 
crazed  whirlwind  of  applause. 

Lissa's  silky  hand  trembled  in  Harrow's, 
her  grasp  relaxed.  He  dropped  his  hand  and, 
searching,  encountered  hers  again. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it?  "  she  asked. 


64  lole 

"  I  don't  think  there's  any  harm  in  it,"  he 
stammered  guiltily,  supposing  she  meant  the 
contact  of  their  interlaced  fingers. 

"  Harm  ?  I  didn't  mean  harm,"  she  said. 
"  The  play  is  perfectly  harmless,  I  think." 

"Oh— the  play!  Oh,  that's  just  that  sort 
of  play,  you  know.  They're  all  alike ;  a  lot 
of  people  go  about  telling  each  other  how 
black  white  is  and  that  white  is  always  black 
— until  somebody  suddenly  discovers  that 
black  and  white  are  a  sort  of  greenish  red. 
Then  the  audience  applauds  frantically  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  everybody  in  it  had  concluded 
that  black  and  white  were  really  a  shade  of 
yellowish  yellow !  " 

She  had  begun  to  laugh ;  and  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, excited  by  her  approval,  the  most  ador- 
able gaiety  possessed  her. 

"  I  never  heard  anything  half  so  clever !  " 
she  said,  leaning  toward  him. 

"I?  Clever!"  he  faltered.  "  You— you 
don't  really  mean  that !  " 

"  Why  ?  Don't  you  know  you  are  ?  Don't 
you  know  in  your  heart  that  you  have  said  the 
very  thing  that  I  in  my  heart  found  no  words 
to  explain  ?  " 

"Did  I,  really?" 


lole  65 

"  Yes.     Isn't  it  delightful !  " 

It  was;  Harrow,  holding  tightly  to  the 
soft  little  hand  half  hidden  by  the  folds 
of  her  gown,  cast  a  sneaking  look  behind 
him,  and  encountered  the  fixed  and  furious 
glare  of  his  closest  friend,  who  had  pinched 
him. 

"  Pig !  "  hissed  Lethbridge,  "  do  I  sit  next 
or  not?" 

"  I— I  can't ;  I'll  explain " 

"Do  I?" 

"  You  don't  understand -" 

"I  understand  you!" 


"  No,  you  don't.    Lissa  and  I " 

"Lissa!" 

"  Ya — as !  We're  talking  very  cleverly ;  7 
am,  too.  Wha'd'you  wan'  to  butt  in  for  ?  " 
with  sudden  venom. 

"  Butt  in !  Do  you  think  I  want  to  sit  here 
and  look  at  tha'  damfool  play !  Fix  it  or  I'll 
run  about  biting !  " 

Harrow  turned.  "  Lissa,"  he  whispered  in 
an  exquisitely  modulated  voice,  "  what  would 
happen  if  I  spoke  to  your  sister  Cybele  ?  " 

"  Why,  she'd  answer  you,  silly !  "  said  the 
girl,  laughing.  "  Wouldn't  you,  Cybele  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  like  to  do,"  said  Cy- 


66  lole 

bele,  leaning  forward :  "  I'd  like  very  much 
to  talk  to  that  attractive  man  who  is  trying 
to  look  at  me — only  your  head  has  been  in 
the  way."  And  she  smiled  innocently  at  Leth- 
bridge. 

So  Lissa  moved  down  one.  Harrow  took 
her  seat,  and  Cybele  dropped  gaily  into  Har- 
row's vacant  place. 

"  Noiv,"  she  said  to  Lethbridge,  "  we  can 
tell  each  other  all  sorts  of  things.  I  was  so 
glad  that  you  looked  at  me  all  the  while 
and  so  vexed  that  I  couldn't  talk  to  you. 
How  do  you  like  my  new  gown?  And 
what  is  your  name?  Have  you  ever  be- 
fore seen  a  play  ?  I  haven't,  and  my  name  is 
Cybele." 

"  It  is  per — perfectly  heavenly  to  hear  you 
talk,"  stammered  Lethbridge. 

Harrow  heard  him,  turned  and  looked 
him  full  in  the  eyes,  then  slowly  resumed 
his  attitude  of  attention:  for  the  poet  was 
speaking : 

"  The  Art  of  Barnard  Haw  is  the  quintes- 
sence of  simplicity.  What  is  the  quintessence 
of  simplicity  ?  "  He  lifted  one  heavy  pudgy 
hand,  joined  the  tips  of  his  soft  thumb  and 
forefinger,  and  selecting  an  atom  of  air,  deftly 


lole  67 

captured  it.  "  That  is  the  quintessence  of  sim- 
plicity ;  that  is  Art !  " 

He  smiled  largely  on  Harrow,  whose  eyes 
had  become  wild  again. 

"That!"  he  repeated,  pinching  out  another 
molecule  of  atmosphere,  "and  that!"  punch- 
ing dent  after  dent  in  the  viewless  void  with 
inverted  thumb. 

On  the  hapless  youth  the  overpowering 
sweetness  of  his  smile  acted  like  an  anes- 
thetic ;  he  saw  things  waver,  even  wabble ;  and 
his  hidden  clutch  on  Lissa's  fingers  tightened 
spasmodically. 

"  Thank  you/'  said  the  poet,  leaning  for- 
ward to  fix  the  young  man  with  his  heavy- 
lidded  eyes.  "  Thank  you  for  the  precious 
thoughts  you  inspire  in  me.  Bless  you.  Our 
mental  and  esthetic  commune  has  been  very 
precious  to  me — very,  very  precious/'  he 
mooned  bulkily,  his  rich  voice  dying  to  a  res- 
onant, soothing  drone. 

Lissa  turned  to  the  petrified  young  man. 
"  Please  be  clever  some  more,"  she  whispered. 
"  You  were  so  perfectly  delightful  about  this 
play." 

"  Child !  "  he  groaned,  "  I  have  scarcely 
sufficient  intellect  to  keep  me  overnight.  You 


68  lole 

must  know  that  I  haven't  understood  one  sin- 
gle thing  your  father  has  been  kind  enough 
to  say." 

"  What  didn't  you  understand  ?  "  she  asked, 
surprised. 

"'Thatl'"  He  flourished  his  thumb. 
"  What  does  '  Thatl '  mean?  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  only  a  trick  father  has  caught 
from  painters  who  tell  you  how  they're  going 
to  use  their  brushes.  But  the  truth  is  I've 
usually  noticed  that  they  do  most  of  their 
work  in  the  air  with  their  thumbs.  .  .  . 
What  else  did  you  not  understand  ?  " 

"Oh— Art!"  he  said  wearily.  "What  is 
it?  Or,  as  Barnard  Haw,  the  higher  expo- 
nent of  the  Webberfield  philosophy,  might  say : 
'Whatitiss?  Yess?'" 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  Webberfield  phi- 
losophy is,"  said  Lissa  innocently,  "  but  Art  is 
only  things  one  believes.  And  it's  awfully 
hard,  too,  because  nobody  sees  the  same  thing 
in  the  same  way,  or  believes  the  same  things 
that  others  believe.  So  there  are  all  kinds  of 
Art.  I  think  the  only  way  to  be  sure  is  when 
the  artist  makes  himself  and  his  audience  hap- 
pier ;  then  that  is  Art.  .  .  .  But  one  need 
not  use  one's  thumb,  you  know." 


lole  69 

"  The — the  way  you  make  me  happy  ?  Is 
that  Art?" 

"Do  I ?  "  she  laughed.  "  Perhaps ;  for  I 
am  happy,  too — far,  far  happier  than  when  I 
read  the  works  of  Henry  Haynes.  And  Henry 
Haynes  is  Art.  Oh,  dear !  " 

But  Harrow  knew  nothing  of  the  intellec- 
tual obstetrics  which  produced  that  great  mas- 
ter's monotypes. 

"Have  you  read  Double  or  Quits?"  he 
ventured  shyly.  "  It's  a  humming  Wall  Street 
story  showing  up  the  entire  bunch  and  expos- 
ing the  trading-stamp  swindle  of  the  great 
department  stores.  The  heroine  is  a  detective 
and — "  She  was  looking  at  him  so  intently 
that  he  feared  he  had  said  something  he 
shouldn't.  "  But  I  don't  suppose  that  would 
interest  you,"  he  muttered,  ashamed. 

"  It  does !  It  is  new!  I — I  never  read  that 
sort  of  a  novel.  Tell  me !  " 

"  Are  you  serious  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  It  is  perfectly  wonderful  to 
think  of  a  heroine  being  a  detective." 

"  Oh,  she's  a  dream !  "  he  said  with  cautious 
enthusiasm.  "  She  falls  in  love  with  the  worst 
stock-washer  in  Wall  Street,  and  pushes  him 
off  a  ferry-boat  when  she  finds  he  has  cornered 


7o  lole 

the  trading-stamp  market  and  is  bankrupting 
her  father,  who  is  president  of  the  department 
store  trust " 

"  Go  on !  "  she  whispered  breathlessly. 

"  I  will,  but— 

"  What  is  it  ?  Oh — is  it  my  hand  you  are 
looking  for?  Here  it  is;  I  only  wanted  to 
smooth  my  hair  a  moment.  Now  tell  me;  for 
I  never,  never  knew  that  such  books  were 
written.  The  books  my  father  permits  us  to 
read  are  not  concerned  with  all  those  vital 
episodes  of  every-day  life.  Nobody  ever  does 
anything  in  the  few  novels  I  am  allowed  to 
read — except,  once,  in  Cranford,  somebody 
gets  up  out  of  a  chair  in  one  chapter — but  sits 
down  again  in  the  next,"  she  added  wearily. 

"  I'll  send  you  something  to  make  anybody 
sit  up  and  stay  up,"  he  said  indignantly. 
"  Baffles,  the  Gent  Burglar ;  Love  Militant,  by 
Nora  Norris  Newman;  The  Crown-Snatcher, 
by  Reginald  Rodman  Roony — oh,  it's  simply 
ghastly  to  think  of  what  you've  missed !  This 
is  the  Victorian  era;  you  have  a  right  to  be 
fully  cognizant  of  the  great  literary  move- 
ments of  the  twentieth  century !  " 

"  I  love  to  hear  you  say  such  things,"  she 
said,  her  beautiful  face  afire.  "  I  desire  to  be 


lole  7 1 

modern — intensely,  humanly  modern.  All  my 
life  I  have  been  nourished  on  the  classics  of 
ages  dead ;  the  literature  of  the  Orient,  of 
Asia,  of  Europe  I  am  familiar  with ;  the  litera- 
ture of  England — as  far  as  Andrew  Bang's 
boyhood  verses.  I — all  my  sisters — read, 
write,  speak,  even  think,  in  ten  languages. 
I  long  for  something  to  read  which  is  vital, 
familiar,  friendly — something  of  my  own  time, 
my  own  day.  I  wish  to  know  what  young 
people  do  and  dare;  what  they  really  think, 
what  they  believe,  strive  for,  desire !  " 

"  Well — well,  I  don't  think  people  really  do 
and  say  and  think  the  things  that  you  read 
in  interesting  modern  novels,"  he  said  doubt- 
fully. "  Fact  is,  only  the  tiresome  novels 
seem  to  tell  a  portion  of  the  truth ;  but  they 
end  by  overdoing  it  and  leave  you  yawn- 
ing with  a  nasty  taste  in  your  mouth.  I — 
I  think  you'd  better  let  your  father  pick  out 
your  novels." 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  she  said  rebelliously.  "  I 
want  you  to." 

He  looked  at  the  beautiful,  rebellious  face 
and  took  a  closer  hold  on  the  hidden  hand. 

"  I  wish  you — I  wish  I  could  choose — every- 
thing for  you,"  he  said  unsteadily. 

12 


72  lole 

"  I  wish  so,  too.  You  are  exactly  the  sort 
of  man  I  like." 

"  Do — do  you  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  replied,  opening  her  splen- 
did eyes.  "  Don't  I  show  the  pleasure  I  take 
in  being  with  you  ?  " 

"  But — would  you  tire  of  me  if — if  we  al- 
ways— forever " 

"Were  friends?     No." 

"  Mo-m-m-more  than  friends  ?  "  Then  he 
choked. 

The  speculation  in  her  wide  eyes  deepened. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked  curiously. 

But  again  the  lone  note  of  the  thumped 
piano  signaled  silence.  In  the  sudden  hush 
the  poet  opened  his  lids  with  a  sticky  smile 
and  folded  his  hands  over  his  abdomen,  plump 
thumbs  joined. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  repeated  Lissa  hur- 
riedly, tightening  her  slender  fingers  around 
Harrow's. 

"  I  mean — I  mean " 

He  turned  in  silence  and  their  eyes  met.  A 
moment  later  her  fingers  relaxed  limply  in  his ; 
their  hands  were  still  in  contact — but  scarcely 
so;  and  so  remained  while  the  Attitudes  of 
Barnard  Haw  held  the  stage. 


IX 


HERE  was  a  young  wife  behind 
the  footlights  explaining  to  a 
young  man  who  was  not  her 
husband  that  her  marriage  vows 
need  not  be  too  seriously  considered  if  he,  the 
young  man,  found  them  too  inconvenient. 
Which  scared  the  young  man,  who  was  plainly 
a  purveyor  of  heated  air  and  a  short  sport. 
And,  although  she  explained  very  clearly  that 
if  he  needed  her  in  his  business  he  had  better 
say  so  quick,  the  author's  invention  gave  out 
just  there  and  he  called  in  the  young  wife's 
husband  to  help  him  out. 

And  all  the  while  the  battery  of  round  blue 

73 


74 


eyes  gazed  on  unwinking;  the  poet's  dewlaps 
quivered  with  stored  emotion,  and  the  spell- 
bound audience  breathed  as  people  breathe 
when  the  hostess  at  table  attempts  to  smooth 
over  a  bad  break  by  her  husband. 

"  Is  that  life  ?  "  whispered  Cybele  to  Leth- 
bridge,  her  sensitive  mouth  aquiver.  "  Did 
the  author  actually  know  such  people?  Do 
you?  Is  conscience  really  only  an  attitude? 
Is  instinct  the  only  guide?  Am  /  —  really  — 
bad  -  " 

"  No,  no,"  whispered  Lethbridge  ;  "  all  that 
is  only  a  dramatist's  attitude.  Don't  —  don't 
look  grieved  !  Why,  every  now  and  then  some 
man  discovers  he  can  attract  more  attention  by 
standing  on  his  head.  That  is  all  —  really,  that 
is  all.  Barnard  Haw  on  his  feet  is  not  amus- 
ing; but  the  same  gentleman  on  his  head  is 
worth  an  orchestra-chair.  When  a  man  wears 
his  trousers  where  other  men  wear  their  coats, 
people  are  bound  to  turn  around.  It  is  not  a 
new  trick.  Mystes,  the  Argive  comic  poet,  and 
the  White  Queen,  taught  this  author  the  value 
of  substituting  '  is  '  for  '  is  not/  until,  from 
standing  so  long  inverted,  he  himself  forgets 
what  he  means,  and  at  this  point  the  eminent 
brothers  Rogers  take  up  the  important  work. 


lole  75 

.  .  .  Please,  please,  Cybele,  don't  take  it 
seriously !  .  .  .  If  you  look  that  way — if 
you  are  unhappy,  I — I " 

A  gentle  snore  from  the  poet  transfixed  the 
firing-line,  but  the  snore  woke  up  the  poet  and 
he  mechanically  pinched  an  atom  out  of  the 
atmosphere,  blinking  at  the  stage. 

"  Precious — very,  very  precious,"  he  mur- 
mured drowsily.  "  Thank  you — thank  every- 
body— "  And  he  sank  into  an  obese  and  noise- 
less slumber  as  the  gray  and  silver  curtain 
slowly  fell.  The  applause,  far  from  rousing 
him,  merely  soothed  him ;  a  honeyed  smile 
hovered  on  his  lips  which  formed  the  words 
"  Thank  you."  That  was  all ;  the  firing-line 
stirred,  breathed  deeply,  and  folded  twelve 
soft  white  hands.  Chlorippe,  twelve,  and  Phil- 
odice,  thirteen,  yawned,  pink-mouthed,  sleepy- 
eyed  ;  Dione,  fourteen,  laid  her  golden  head  on 
the  shoulder  of  Aphrodite,  fifteen. 

The  finger-tips  of  Lissa  and  Harrow  still 
touched,  scarcely  clinging;  they  had  turned 
toward  one  another  when  the  curtain  fell.  But 
the  play,  to  them,  had  been  a  pantomime  of 
silhouettes,  the  stage,  a  void  edged  with  flame 
— the  scene,  the  audience,  the  theater,  the  poet 
himself  as  unreal  and  meaningless  as  the  shad- 


76  lole 

owy  attitudes  of  the  shapes  that  vanished  when 
the  phantom  curtain  closed  its  folds. 

And  through  the  subdued  light,  turning 
noiselessly,  they  peered  at  one  another,  con- 
scious that  naught  else  was  real  in  the  misty, 
golden-tinted  gloom;  that  they  were  alone  to- 
gether there  in  a  formless,  soundless  chaos 
peopled  by  shapes  impalpable  as  dreams. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  she  said,  her  lips  scarcely 
moving  as  the  soft  voice  stirred  them  like  car- 
mine petals  stirring  in  a  scented  breeze. 

"Tell  you  that  it  is— love?" 

"  Yes,  tell  me." 

"That  I  love  you,  Lissa?" 

"  Yes ;  that !  " 

He  stooped  nearer ;  his  voice  was  steady  and 
Very  low,  and  she  leaned  with  bent  head  to 
listen,  clear-eyed,  intelligent,  absorbed. 

"  So  that  is  love — what  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"Yes— partly." 

"And  the  other  part?" 

"  The  other  part  is  when  you  find  you  love 
me." 

"  I — do.  I  think  it  must  be  love,  because  I 
can't  bear  to  have  you  go  away.  Besides,  I 
wish  you  to  tell  me — things." 

"Ask  me." 


lole  77 

"  Well  —  when  two  —  like  you  and  me,  begin 
to  love  —  what  happens  ?  " 

"  We  confess  it  --  " 

"I  do;  I'm  not  ashamed.  .  .  .  Should 
I  be?  And  then?" 

"Then?"  he  faltered. 

"Yes;  do  we  kiss?  .  .  .  For  I  am 
curious  to  have  you  do  it  —  I  am  so  certain 
I  shall  adore  you  when  you  do.  .  .  . 
I  wish  we  could  go  away  somewhere  to- 
gether. .  .  .  But  we  can't  do  that  until 
I  am  a  bride,  can  we?  Oh  —  do  you  really 
want  me  ?  " 

"  Can  you  ask  ?  "  he  breathed. 

"Ask?  Yes  —  yes.  ...  I  love  to  ask! 
Your  hand  thrills  me.  We  can't  go  away 
now,  can  we?  It  took  lole  so  long  to  be 
permitted  to  go  away  with  Mr.  Wayne  —  all 
that  time  lost  in  so  many  foolish  ways  —  when 
a  girl  is  so  impatient.  ...  Is  it  not  strange 
how  my  heart  beats  when  I  look  into  your 
eyes?  Oh,  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it, 
I  am  dreadfully  in  love.  .  .  .  And  so 
quickly,  too.  I  suppose  it's  because  I  am  in 
such  splendid  health  ;  don't  you  ?  " 


"  Oh,  I  do  want  to  get  up  at  once  and  go 


78  lole 

away  with  you!  Can't  we?  I  could  explain 
to  father/' 

"Wait!"  he  gasped,  "  he— he's  asleep. 
Don't  speak — don't  touch  him." 

"  How  unselfish  you  are/'  she  breathed. 
"  No,  you  are  not  hurting  my  fingers.  Tell 
me  more — about  love  and  the  blessed  years 
awaiting  us,  and  about  our  children — oh,  is 
it  not  wonderful !  " 

"  Ex — extremely,"  he  managed  to  mutter, 
touching  his  suddenly  dampened  forehead 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  attempting  to  set 
his  thoughts  in  some  sort  of  order.  He  could 
not;  the  incoherence  held  him  speechless, 
dazed,  under  the  magic  of  this  superb  young 
being  instinct  with  the  soft  fire  of  life. 

Her  loveliness,  her  innocence,  the  beautiful, 
direct  gaze,  the  childlike  fulness  of  mouth  and 
contour  of  cheek  and  throat,  left  him  spell- 
bound. The  very  air  around  them  seemed  suf- 
fused with  the  vital  glow  of  her  youth  and 
beauty;  each  breath  they  drew  increased  their 
wonder,  till  the  whole  rosy  universe  seemed 
thrilling  and  singing  at  their  feet,  and  they 
two,  love-crowned,  alone,  saw  Time  and  Eter- 
nity flowing  like  a  golden  tide  under  the  spell 
of  Paradise. 


lole  79 


The  hoarse  whisper  of  Lethbridge  shook  the 
vision  from  him;  he  turned  a  flushed  coun- 
tenance to  his  friend;  but  Cybele  spoke: 

"  We  are  very  tired  sitting  here.  We  would 
like  to  take  some  tea  at  Sherry's/'  she  whis- 
pered. "  What  do  you  think  we  had  better 
do?  It  seems  so  —  so  futile  to  sit  here  —  when 
we  wish  to  be  alone  together  -  " 

"  You  and  Henry,  too  !  "  gasped  Harrow. 

"  Yes  ;  do  you  wonder?  "  She  leaned  swift- 
ly in  front  of  him;  a  fragrant  breeze  stirred 
his  hair.  "  Lissa,  I'm  desperately  infatuated 
with  Mr.  Lethbridge.  Do  you  see  any  use  in 
our  staying  here  when  I'm  simply  dying  to 
have  him  all  to  myself  somewhere  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  silly.    I  wish  to  go,  too.   Shall  we  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  go,"  began  Cybele  ;  then 
stopped,  aware  of  the  new  magic  in  her  sis- 
ter's eyes.  "  Lissa  !  Lissa  !  "  she  said  softly. 
"  You,  too  !  Oh,  my  dear  —  my  dearest  !  " 

"  Dear,  is  it  not  heavenly  ?  I  —  I  —  was  quite 
sure  that  if  I  ever  had  a  good  chance  to  talk 
to  a  man  I  really  liked  something  would  hap- 
pen. And  it  has." 

"If  Philodice  might  awaken  father  perhaps 
he  would  let  us  go  now,"  whispered  Cybele. 
13 


8o  lole 

"  Henry  says  it  does  not  take  more  than  an 
hour " 

"To  become  a  bride?" 

"  Yes ;   he    knows   a   clergyman   very   near 


"  Do  you  ? "  inquired  Lissa.  Lethbridge 
nodded  and  gave  a  scared  glance  at  Harrow, 
who  returned  it  as  though  stunned. 

"  But— but,"  muttered  the  latter,  "  your  fa- 
ther doesn't  know  who  we  are " 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  does,"  said  Cybele  calmly, 
"  for  he  sent  you  the  tickets  and  placed  us 
near  you  so  that  if  we  found  that  we  liked 
you  we  might  talk  to  you " 

"  Only  he  made  a  mistake  in  your  name," 
added  Lissa  to  Harrow,  "  for  he  wrote  '  Stan- 
ley West,  Esq.'  on  the  envelope.  I  know  be- 
cause I  mailed  it." 

"  Invited  West — put  you  where  you  could — 
good  God !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  whispered  Lissa  in 
consternation ;  "  have — have  I  said  anything  I 
should  not?  "  And,  as  he  was  silent:  "  What 
is  it?  Have  I  hurt  you — I  who " 

There  was  a  silence ;  she  looked  him  through 
and  through  and,  after  a  while,  deep,  deep  in 
his  soul,  she  saw,  awaking  once  again,  all  he 


lole  8 1 

had  deemed  dead — the  truth,  the  fearless  rea- 
son, the  sweet  and  faultless  instinct  of  the 
child  whose  childhood  had  become  a  memory. 
Then,  once  more  spiritually  equal,  they  smiled 
at  one  another;  and  Lissa,  pausing  to  gather 
up  her  ermine  stole,  passed  noiselessly  out  to 
the  aisle,  where  she  stood,  perfectly  self- 
possessed,  while  her  sister  joined  her,  smiling 
vaguely  down  at  the  firing-line  and  their  lifted 
4  battery  of  blue,  inquiring  eyes. 

The  poet — and  whether  he  had  slumbered 
or  not  nobody  but  himself  is  qualified  to  judge 
— the  poet  pensively  opened  one  eye  and  peeped 
at  Harrow  as  that  young  man  bent  beside  him 
with  Lethbridge  at  his  elbow. 

"  In  sending  those  two  tickets  you  have 
taught  us  a  new  creed/'  whispered  Harrow; 
"  you  have  taught  us  innocence  and  simplic- 
ity— you  have  taught  us  to  be  ourselves,  to 
scorn  convention,  to  say  and  do  what  we  be- 
lieve. Thank  you/' 

•"  Dear  friend,"  said  the  poet  in  an  artisti- 
cally-modulated whisper,  "  I  have  long,  long 
followed  you  in  the  high  course  of  your  career. 
To  me  the  priceless  simplicity  of  poverty:  to 
you  the  responsibility  for  millions.  To  me  the 
daisy,  the  mountain  stream,  the  woodchuck 


82  lole 

and  my  Art!  To  you  the  busy  mart,  the 
haunts  of  men,  the  ship  of  finance  laden  with 
a  nation's  wealth,  the  awful  burden  of  mil- 
lions for  which  you  are  answerable  to  One 
higher !  "  He  raised  one  soft,  solemn  finger. 

The  young  men  gazed  at  one  another,  as- 
tounded. Lethbridge's  startled  eyes  said,  "  He 
still  takes  you  for  Stanley  West !  " 

"  Let  him !  "  flashed  the  grim  answer  back 
from  the  narrowing  gaze  of  Harrow. 

"  Daughters,"  whispered  the  poet  playfully, 
"  are  you  so  soon  tired  of  the  brilliant  gems  of 
satire  which  our  master  dramatist  scatters  with 
a  lavish " 

"  No,"  said  Cybele ;  "  we  are  only  very 
much  in  love." 

The  poet  sat  up  briskly  and  looked  hard  at 
Harrow. 

"  Your — your  friend  ?  "  he  began — "  doubt- 
less associated  with  you  in  the  high " 

"  We  are  inseparable,"  said  Harrow  calmly, 
"  in  the  busy  marts." 

The  sweetness  of  the  poet's  smile  was  almost 
overpowering. 

"  To  discuss  this  sudden — ah — condition 
which  so — ah — abruptly  confronts  a  father,  I 
can  not  welcome  you  to  my  little  home  in  the 


lole  83 

wild — which  I  call  the  House  Beautiful,"  he 
said.  "  I  would  it  were  possible.  There  all 
is  quiet  and  simple  and  exquisitely  humble — 
though  now,  through  the  grace  of  my  valued 
son,  there  is  no  mortgage  hanging  like  the 
brand  of  Damocles  above  our  lowly  roof.  But 
I  bid  you  welcome  in  the  name  of  my  son-in- 
law,  on  whom — I  should  say,  with  whom — I 
and  my  babes  are  sojourning  in  this  clam- 
orous city.  Come  and  let  us  talk,  soul  to  soul, 
heart  to  heart ;  come  and  partake  of  what  sim- 
ples we  have.  Set  the  day,  the  hour.  I  thank 
you  for  understanding  me."' 

"  The  hour,"  replied  Harrow,  "  will  be 
about  five  P.  M.  on  Monday  afternoon.  .  .  . 
You  see,  we  are  going  out  now  to — to " 

"  To  marry  each  other,"  whispered  Lissa 
with  all  her  sweet  fearlessness.  "  Oh,  dear ! 
there  goes  that  monotonous  piano  and  we'll  be 
blocking  people's  view  !  " 

The  poet  tried  to  rise  upon  his  great  flat 
feet,  but  he  was  wedged  too  tightly ;  he  strove 
to  speak,  to  call  after  them,  but  the  loud 
thumping  notes  of  the  piano  drowned  his  voice. 

"  Chlorippe !  Dione !  Philodice !  Tell  them 
to  stop !  Run  after  them  and  stay  them ! " 
panted  the  poet. 


84 


lole 


"  You  go !  "  pouted  Dione. 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to,"  explained  Chlorippe, 
"  because  the  curtain  is  rising." 

"  I'll  go,"  sighed  Philodice,  rising  to  her 
slender  height  and  moving  up  the  aisle  as  the 
children  of  queens  moved  once  upon  a  time. 
She  came  back  presently,  saying :  "  Dear  me, 
they're  dreadfully  in  love,  and  they  have 
driven  away  in  two  hansoms." 

"  Gone !  "  wheezed  the  poet. 

"  Quite,"  said  Philodice,  staring  at  the  stage 
and  calmly  folding  her  smooth  little  hands. 


X 


HEN  the  curtain  at  last  de- 
scended upon  the  parting  atti- 
tudes of  the  players  the  poet 
arose  with  an  alacrity  scarcely 
to  be  expected  in  a  gentleman  of  his  propor- 
tions. Two  and  two  his  big,  healthy  daugh- 
ters— there  remained  but  four  now — followed 
him  to  the  lobby.  When  he  was  able  to  pack 
all  four  into  a  cab  he  did  so  and  sent  them 
home  without  ceremony ;  then,  summoning  an- 
other vehicle,  gave  the  driver  the  directions 
and  climbed  in. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  deposited  under 
the  bronze  shelter  of  the  porte-cochere  belong- 

85 


86  lole 

ing  to  an  extremely  expensive  mansion  over- 
looking the  park;  and  presently,  admitted,  he 
prowled  ponderously  and  softly  about  an  over- 
gilded rococo  reception-room.  But  all  anx- 
iety had  now  fled  from  his  face;  he  coyly 
nipped  the  atmosphere  at  intervals  as  various 
portions  of  the  furniture  attracted  his  ap- 
proval; he  stood  before  a  splendid  canvas  of 
Goya  and  pushed  his  thumb  at  it;  he  moused 
and  prowled  and  peeped  and  snooped,  and  his 
smile  grew  larger  and  larger  and  sweeter  and 
sweeter,  until — dare  I  say  it! — a  low  smooth 
chuckle,  all  but  noiseless,  rippled  the  heavy 
cheeks  of  the  poet ;  and,  raising  his  eyes,  he 
beheld  a  stocky,  fashionably-dressed  and  red- 
faced  man  of  forty  intently  eying  him.  The 
man  spoke  decisively  and  at  once: 

"  Mr.  Guilf ord  ?  Quite  so.  I  am  Mr. 
West." 

"You  are — "  The  poet's  smile  flickered 
like  a  sickly  candle.  "  I — this  is — are  you 
Mr.  Stanley  West?" 

"  I  am." 

"  It  must — it  probably  was  your  son " 

"  I  am  unmarried,"  said  the  president  of  the 
Occidental  tartly,  "  and  the  only  Stanley  West 
in  the  directory." 


lole  87 

The  poet  swayed,  then  sat  down  rather  sud- 
denly on  a  Louis  XIV  chair  which  crackled. 
Several  times  he  passed  an  ample  hand  over 
his  features.  A  mechanical  smile  struggled  to 
break  out,  but  it  was  not  the  smile,  any  more 
than  glucose  is  sugar. 

"  Did — ah — did  you  receive  two  tickets  for 
the  New  Arts  Theater— ah— Mr.  West?"  he 
managed  to  say  at  last. 

"  I  did.  Thank  you  very  much,  but  I  was 
not  able  to  avail  myself " 

"  Quite  so.  And — ah — do  you  happen  to 
know  who  it  was  that — ah — presented  your 
tickets  and  occupied  the  seats  this  after- 
noon ?  " 

"  Why,  I  suppose  it  was  two  young  men  in 
our  employ — Mr.  Lethbridge,  who  appraises 
property  for  us,  and  Mr.  Harrow,  one  of  our 
brokers.  May  I  ask  why  ?  " 

For  a  long  while  the  poet  sat  there,  eyes 
squeezed  tightly  closed  as  though  in  bodily  an- 
guish. Then  he  opened  one  of  them: 

"  They  are — ah — quite  penniless,  I  pre- 
sume? " 

"  They  have  prospects,"  said  West  briefly. 
"Why?" 

The  poet  rose ;  something  of  his  old  attitude 
14 


88  Me 

returned ;  he  feebly  gazed  at  a  priceless  Mas- 
sero  vase,  made  a  half-hearted  attempt  to  join 
thumb  and  forefinger,  then  rambled  toward 
the  door,  where  two  spotless  flunkies  attended 
with  his  hat  and  overcoat. 

"Mr.  Guilford,"  said  West,  following,  a 
trifle  perplexed  and  remorseful,  "  I  should  be 
very — er — extremely  happy  to  subscribe  to  the 
New  Arts  Theater — if  that  is  what  you 
wished." 

"  Thank  you/'  said  the  poet  absently  as 
a  footman  invested  him  with  a  seal-lined 
coat. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  I  could  do  for  you, 
Mr.  Guilford?" 

The  poet's  abstracted  gaze  rested  on  him, 
then  shifted. 

"  I — I  don't  feel  very  well,"  said  the  poet 
hoarsely,  sitting  down  in  a  hall-seat.  Sud- 
denly he  began  to  cry,  fatly. 

Nobody  did  anything ;  the  stupefied  footman 
gaped;  West  looked,  walked  nervously  the 
length  of  the  hall,  looked  again,  and  paced 
the  inlaid  floor  to  and  fro,  until  the  bell  at  the 
door  sounded  and  a  messenger-boy  appeared 
with  a  note  scribbled  on  a  yellow  telegraph 
blank : 


lole  89 

"  Lethbridge  and  I  just  married  and  madly 
happy.  Will  be  on  hand  Monday,  sure.  Can't 
you  advance  us  three  months'  salary? 

"  HARROW." 

"  Idiots !  "  said  West.  Then,  looking  up : 
"  What  are  you  waiting  for,  boy  ?  " 

"  Me  answer,"  replied  the  messenger  calmly. 

"  Oh,  you  were  told  to  bring  back  an  an- 
swer?" 

"Ya-as." 

"  Then  give  me  your  pencil,  my  infant 
Chesterfield."  And  West  scribbled  on  the 
same  yellow  blank: 

"  Checks  for  you  on  your  desks  Monday. 
Congratulations.  I'll  see  you  through,  you 
damfools.  WEST." 

"  Here's  a  quarter  for  you,"  observed  West, 
eying  the  messenger. 

"  T'anks.    Gimme  the  note." 

West  glanced  at  the  moist,  fat  poet;  then 
suddenly  that  intuition  which  is  bred  in  men 
of  his  stamp  set  him  thinking.  And  presently 
he  tentatively  added  two  and  two. 

"Mr.     Guilford,"     he     said,     "I     wonder 


90  lole 

whether  this  note — and  my  answer  to  it — 
concerns  you." 

The  poet  used  his  handkerchief,  adjusted  a 
pair  of  glasses,  and  blinked  at  the  penciled 
scrawl.  Twice  he  read  it;  then,  like  the  full 
sun  breaking  through  a  drizzle — like  the  glory 
of  a  search-light  dissolving  a  sticky  fog,  the 
smile  of  smiles  illuminated  everything:  foot- 
men, messenger,  financier. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  thickly ;  "  thank  you 
for  your  thought.  Thought  is  but  a  trifle  to 
bestow — a  little  thing  in  itself.  But  it  is  the 
little  things  that  are  most  important — the 
smaller  the  thing  the  more  vital  its  importance, 
until  " — he  added  in  a  genuine  burst  of  his 
old  eloquence — "  the  thing  becomes  so  small 
that  it  isn't  anything  at  all,  and  then  the  value 
of  nothing  becomes  so  enormous  that  it  is  past 
all  computation.  That  is  a  very  precious 
thought!  Thank  you  for  it;  thank  you  for 
understanding.  Bless  you  !  " 

Exuding  a  rich  sweetness  from  every  fea- 
ture the  poet  moved  toward  the  door  at  a  slow 
fleshy  waddle,  head  wagging,  small  eyes  half 
closed,  thumbing  the  atmosphere,  while  his 
lips  moved  in  wordless  self-communion :  "  The 
attainment  of  nothing  at  all — that  is  rarest, 


lole  91 

the  most  precious,  the  most  priceless  of 
triumphs — very,  very  precious.  So  " — and 
his  glance  was  sideways  and  nimbly  intelli- 
gent— "  so  if  nothing  at  all  is  of  such  inesti- 
mable value,  those  two  young  pups  can  live  on 
their  expectations — quod  crat  demonstran- 
dum." 

He  shuddered  and  looked  up  at  the  fagade 
of  the  gorgeous  house  which  he  had  just 
quitted. 

"  So  many  sunny  windows  to  sit  in — to 
dream  in.  I — I  should  have  found  it  agree- 
able. Pups!" 

Crawling  into  his  cab  he  sank  into  a  pulpy 
mound,  partially  closing  his  eyes.  And  upon 
his  pursed-up  lips,  unuttered  yet  imminent,  a 
word  trembled  and  wabbled  as  the  cab  bounced 
down  the  avenue.  It  may  have  been  "  pre- 
cious " ;  it  was  probably  "  pups !  " 


XI 


LIT  there  were  further  poignant 
emotions  in  store  for  the  poet, 
for,  as  his  cab  swung  out  of 
the  avenue  and  drew  up  before 
the  great  house  on  the  southwest  corner  of 
Seventy-ninth  Street  and  Madison  Avenue,  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  eldest  daughter,  lole, 
vanishing  into  the  house,  and,  at  the  same 
moment,  he  perceived  his  son-in-law,  Mr. 
Wayne,  paying  the  driver  of  a  hansom-cab, 
while  several  liveried  servants  bore  house- 
ward  the  luggage  of  the  wedding  journey. 

"  George !  "   he   cried    dramatically,    thrust- 
ing his  head  from  the  window  of  his  own  cab 
as  that  vehicle  drew  up  with  a  jolt  that  made 
his  stomach  vibrate,  "  George !  I  am  here !  " 
92 


lole  93 

Wayne  looked  around,  paid  the  hansom- 
driver,  and,  advancing  slowly,  offered  his  hand 
as  the  poet  descended  to  the  sidewalk.  "  How 
are  you  ?  "  he  inquired  without  enthusiasm  as 
the  poet  evinced  a  desire  to  paw  him.  "  All 
is  well  here,  I  hope." 

"  George !  Son !  "  The  poet  gulped  till  his 
dewlap  contracted.  He  laid  a  large  plump 
hand  on  Wayne's  shoulders.  "  Where  are  my 
lambs?  "  he  quavered;  "  where  are  they?  " 

"  Which  lambs  ?  "  inquired  the  young  man 
uneasily.  "If  you  mean  lole  and  Vanes- 
sa  " 

"  No !  My  ravished  lambs !  Give  me  my 
stolen  lambs.  Trifle  no  longer  with  a  father's 
affections !  Lissa ! — Cybele !  Great  Heavens  ! 
Where  are  they  ?  "  he  sobbed  hoarsely. 

"  Well,  ^vhere  are  they  ?  "  retorted  his  son- 
in-law,  horrified.  "  Come  into  the  house ;  peo- 
ple in  the  street  are  looking." 

In  the  broad  hall  the  poet  paused,  staggered, 
strove  to  paw  Wayne,  then  attempted  to  fold 
his  arms  in  an  attitude  of  bitter  scorn. 

"  Two  penniless  wastrels,"  he  muttered, 
"are  wedded  to  my  lambs.  But  there  are 

laws  to  invoke " 

An  avalanche  of  pretty  girls  in  pink  pa- 


94  lole 

jamas  came  tumbling  down  the  bronze  and 
marble  staircase,  smothering  poet  and  son-in- 
law  in  happy  embraces ;  and  "  Oh,  George !  " 
they  cried,  "  how  sunburned  you  are !  So  is 
lole,  but  she  is  too  sweet!  Did  you  have  a 
perfectly  lovely  honeymoon?  When  is  Va- 
nessa coming?  And  how  is  Mr.  Briggs? 
And — oh,  do  you  know  the  news?  Cybele 
and  Lissa  married  two  such  extremely  attrac- 
tive young  men  this  afternoon " 

"  Married !  "  cried  Wayne,  releasing  Dione's 
arms  from  his  neck.  "  Whom  did  they  marry  ?  " 

"  Pups !  "  sniveled  the  poet  —  "  penniless, 
wastrel  pups ! " 

"  Their  names/'  said  Aphrodite  coolly,  from 
the  top  of  the  staircase,  "  are  James  Harrow 
and  Henry  Lethbridge.  I  wish  there  had  been 
three " 

"  Harrow  !  Lethbridge !  "  gasped  Wayne. 
"  When  " — he  turned  helplessly  to  the  poet — 
"  when  did  they  do  this  ?  " 

Through  the  gay  babble  of  voices  and  amid 
cries  and  interruptions,  Wayne  managed  to 
comprehend  the  story.  He  tried  to -speak,  but 
everybody  except  the  poet  laughed  and  chatted, 
and  the  poet,  suffused  now  with  a  sort  of 
sad  sweetness,  waved  his  hand  in  slow 


Me  95 

unctuous  waves  until  even  the  footmen's  eyes 
protruded. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Wayne,  raising  his 
voice ;  "  it's  topsyturvy  and  irregular,  but 
it's  all  right.  I've  known  Harrow  and  Leth — 
For  Heaven's  sake,  Dione,  don't  kiss  me  like 
that ;  I  want  to  talk ! — You're  hugging  me  too 
hard,  Philodice.  Oh,  Lord !  will  you  stop 
chattering  all  together!  I — I — Do  you  want 
the  house  to  be  pinched  ?  " 

He  glanced  up  at  Aphrodite,  who  sat  astride 
the  banisters  lighting  a  cigarette.  "  Who 
taught  you  to  do  that?  "  he  cried. 

"  I'm  sixteen,  now,"  she  said  coolly,  "  and 
I  thought  I'd  try  it." 

Her  voice  was  drowned  in  the  cries  and 
laughter;  Wayne,  with  his  hands  to  his  ears, 
stared  up  at  the  piquant  figure  in  its  pink  pa- 
jamas and  sandals,  then  his  distracted  gaze 
swept  the  groups  of  parlor  maids  and  foot- 
men around  the  doors :  "  Great  guns !  "  he 
thundered,  "this  is  the  limit  and  they'll  pull 
the  house !  Morton !  " — to  a  footman — "  ring 
up  7 — oo — o,B  Murray  Hill.  My  compliments 
and  congratulations  to  Mr.  Lethbridge  and  to 
Mr.  Harrow,  and  say  that  we  usually  dine  at 
eight!  Philodice!  stop  that  howling!  Oh, 
15 


g6  lole 

just  you  wait  until  lole  has  a  talk  with  you  all 
for  running  about  the  house  half-dressed " 

"  I  won't  wear  straight  fronts  indoors,  and 
my  garters  hurt ! "  cried  Aphrodite  defiantly, 
preparing  to  slide  down  the  banisters. 

"  Help !  "  said  Wayne  faintly,  looking  from 
Dione  to  Chlorippe,  from  Chlorippe  to  Philo- 
dice,  from  Philodice  to  Aphrodite.  "  I  won't 
have  my  house  turned  into  a  confounded  Art 
Nouveau  music  hall.  I  tell  you " 

"  Let  me  tell  them,"  said  lole,  laughing  and 
kissing  her  hand  to  the  poet  as  she  descended 
the  stairs  in  her  pretty  bride's  traveling  gown. 

She  checked  Aphrodite,  looked  wisely 
around  at  her  lovely  sisters,  then  turned 
to  remount  the  stairs,  summoning  them  with 
a  gay  little  confidential  gesture. 

And  when  the  breathless  crew  had  trooped 
after  her,  and  the  pad  of  little,  eager,  sandaled 
feet  had  died  away  on  the  thick  rugs  of  the 
landing  above,  the  poet,  clasping  his  fat  white 
hands,  thumbs  joined,  across  his  rotund  abdo- 
men, stole  a  glance  at  his  dazed  son-in-law, 
which  was  partly  apprehensive  and  partly 
significant,  almost  cunning.  "  An  innocent 
saturnalia,"  he  murmured.  "  The  charming 
abandon  of  children."  He  unclasped  one 


lole  97 

hand  and  waved  it.  "  Did  you  note  the  un- 
studied beauty  of  the  composition  as  my  babes 
glided  in  and  out  following  the  natural  and 
archaic  yet  exquisitely  balanced  symmetry  of 
the  laws  which  govern  mass  and  line  composi- 
tion, all  unconsciously,  yet  perhaps  " — he  re- 
versed his  thumb  and  left  his  sign  manual 
upon  the  atmosphere — "  perhaps/'  he  mused, 
overflowing  with  sweetness — "  perhaps  the 
laws  of  Art  Nouveau  are  divine ! — perhaps 
angels  and  cherubim,  unseen,  watch  fondly 
o'er  my  babes,  lest  all  unaware  they  guilt- 
lessly violate  some  subtle  canon  of  Art, 
marring  the  perfect  symmetry  of  eternal 
preciousness." 

Wayne's  mouth  was  partly  open,  his  eyes 
hopeless  yet  fixed  upon  the  poet  with  a  fear- 
ful fascination. 

"  Art,"  breathed  the  poet,  "  is  a  solemn,  a 
fearful  responsibility.  You  are  responsible, 
George,  and  some  day  you  must  answer  for 
every  violation  of  Art,  to  the  eternal  outraged 
fitness  of  things.  You  must  answer,  /  must 
answer,  every  soul  must  answer ! " 

"  A-ans — answer !  What,  for  God's  sake  ?  " 
stammered  Wayne. 

The  poet,    deliberately  joining  thumb   and 


98  lole 

forefinger,  pinched  out  a  portion  of  the  at- 
mosphere. 

"That!  That  George!  For  that  is  Art! 
And  Art  is  justice!  And  justice,  affronted, 
demands  an  answer." 

He  refolded  his  arms,  mused  for  a  space, 
then  stealing  a  veiled  glance  sideways : 

"  You — you  are — ah — convinced  that  my 
two  lost  lambs  need  dread  no  bodily  vicissi- 
tudes  " 

"Cybele  and  Lissa?" 

«  Ah— yes " 

"  Lethbridge  will  have  money  to  burn  if  he 
likes  the  aroma  of  the  smoke.  Harrow  has 
burnt  several  stacks  already;  but  his  father 
will  continue  to  fire  the  furnace.  Is  that  what 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  No !  "  said  the  poet  softly,  "  no,  George, 
that  is  not  what  I  mean.  Wealth  is  a  great 
thing.  Only  the  little  things  are  precious  to 
me.  And  the  most  precious  of  all  is  absolutely 
nothing !  "  But,  as  he  wandered  away  into 
the  great  luxurious  habitation  of  his  son-in- 
law,  his  smile  grew  sweeter  and  sweeter  and 
his  half-closed  eyes  swam,  melting  into  a  sac- 
charine reverie. 

"  The  little  things,"  he  murmured,  thumb- 


lole 


99 


ing  the  air  absently — "  the  little  things  are 
precious,  but  not  as  precious  as  absolutely 
nothing.  For  nothing  is  perfection.  Thank 
you,"  he  said  sweetly  to  a  petrified  footman, 
"  thank  you  for  understanding.  It  is  precious 
— very,  very  precious  to  know  that  I  am  un- 
derstood." 


XII 


Y  early  springtide  the  poet  had 
taken  an  old-fashioned  house  on 
the  south  side  of  Washington 
Square;  his  sons-in-law  standing 
for  it — as  the  poet  was  actually  beginning  to 
droop  amid  the  civilized  luxury  of  Madison 
Avenue.  He  missed  what  he  called  his  own 
"  den."  So  he  got  it,  rent  free,  and  furnished 
it  sparingly  with  furniture  of  a  slabby  variety 
until  the  effect  produced  might,  profanely 
speaking,  be  described  as  dinky. 

His  friends,  too,  who  haunted  the  house, 
bore  curious  conformity  to  the  furnishing, 
being  individually  in  various  degrees  either 


lole 


squatty,  slabby  or  dinky  ;  and  twice  a  week 
they  gathered  for  "  Conferences  "  upon  what 
he  and  they  described  as  "  L'Arr  Noovo." 

L'Arr  Noovo,  a  pleasing  variation  of  the 
slab  style  in  Art,  had  profoundly  impressed 
the  poet.  Glass  window-panes,  designed  with 
tulip  patterns,  were  cunningly  inserted  into  all 
sorts  of  furniture  where  window-glass  didn't 
belong,  and  the  effect  appeared  to  be  profit- 
able ;  for  up-stairs  in  his  "  shop,"  workmen 
were  very  busy  creating  extraordinary  de- 
signs and  setting  tulip-patterned  glass  into 
everything  with,  as  the  poet  explained,  "  a 
loving  care  "  and  considerable  glue. 

His  four  unmarried  daughters  came  to  see 
him,  wandering  unconcernedly  between  the 
four  handsome  residences  of  their  four  broth- 
ers-in-law and  the  "  den  "  of  the  author  of  their 
being  —  Chlorippe,  aged  thirteen  ;  Philodice, 
fourteen;  Dione,  fifteen,  and  Aphrodite,  six- 
teen —  lovely,  fresh-skinned,  free-limbed  young 
girls  with  the  delicate  bloom  of  sun  and  wind 
still  creaming  their  cheeks  —  lingering  effects 
of  a  life  lived  ever  in  the  open,  until  the  poet's 
sons-in-law  were  able  to  support  him  in  town 
in  the  style  to  which  he  had  been  unaccus- 
tomed. 


<    <(>  '<    <  ,<      '  r    I    «  '<    »' 

IO2 


To  the  Conferences  of  the  poet  came  the 
mentally,  morally,  and  physically  dinky — and 
a  few  badgered  but  normal  husbands,  hustled 
thither  by  wives  whose  intellectual  develop- 
ment was  tending  toward  the  precious. 

People  read  poems,  discussed  Yeats,  Shaw, 
Fiona,  Mendes,  and  L'Arr  Noovo;  sang,  wan- 
dered about  pinching  or  thumbing  the  atmos- 
phere under  stimulus  of  a  cunningly  and 
unexpectedly  set  window-pane  in  the  back  of 
a  "  mission  "  rocking-chair.  And  when  the 
proper  moment  arrived  the  poet  would  rise, 
exhaling  sweetness  from  every  pore  of  his 
bulky  entity,  to  interpret  what  he  called  a 
"  Thought."  Sometimes  it  was  a  demonstra- 
tion of  the  priceless  value  of  "  nothings " ; 
sometimes  it  was  a  naive  suggestion  that  no 
house  could  afford  to  be  without  an  "  Art  "- 
rocker  with  Arr  Noovo  insertions.  Such  in- 
dispensable luxuries  were  on  sale  up-stairs. 
Again,  he  performed  a  "  necklace  of  precious 
sounds  " — in  other  words,  some  verses  upon 
various  topics,  nature,  woodchucks,  and  the 
dinkified  in  Art. 

And  it  was  upon  one  of  these  occasions  that 
Aphrodite  ran  away. 

Aphrodite,   the    sweet,   the    reasonable,   the 


lole 


103 


self-possessed — Aphrodite   ran  away,   having 

without    any    apparent    reason  been    stricken 

with  an  overpowering  aversion  for  civilization 
and  Arr  Noovo. 


XIII 


T  the  poet's  third  Franco-Ameri- 
can Conference  that  afternoon 
the  room  was  still  vibrating 
with  the  echoes  of  Aphrodite's 
harp  accompaniment  to  her  own  singing,  and 
gushing  approbation  had  scarcely  ceased, 
when  the  poet  softly  rose  and  stood  with 
eyes  half-closed  as  though  concentrating  all 
the  sweetness  within  him  upon  the  surface  of 
his  pursed  lips. 

A  wan  young  man  whose  face  figured  only 

as     a     by-product     of     his     hair     whispered 

"  Hush !  "    and   several    people,    who   seemed 

to  be  more  or  less  out  of  drawing,  assumed 

104 


lole  105 

attitudes  which  emphasized  the  faulty  drafts- 
manship. 

"  La  Poesie !  "  breathed  the  poet ;  "  Kesker 
say  la  poesie?  " 

"  La  poesie — say  la  vee !  "  murmured  a 
young  woman  with  profuse  teeth. 

"  Wee,  wee,  say  la  vee !  "  cried  several  peo- 
ple triumphantly. 

"  Nong !  "  sighed  the  poet,  spraying  the 
hushed  air  with  sweetness,  "  nong !  Say  pas 
le  vee ;  say  rimmortalitay !  " 

After  which  the  poet  resumed  his  seat,  and 
the  by-product  read,  in  French  verse,  "  An 
Appreciation "  of  the  works  of  Wilhelmina 
Ganderbury  McNutt. 

And  that  was  the  limit  of  the  Franco  por- 
tion of  the  Conference;  the  remainder  being 
plain  American. 

Aphrodite,  resting  on  her  tall  gilded  harp, 
looked  sullenly  straight  before  her.  Some- 
body lighted  a  Chinese  joss-stick,  perhaps  to 
kill  the  aroma  of  defunct  cigarettes. 

"  Verse,"  said  the  poet,  opening  his  heavy 
lids  and  gazing  around  him  with  the  lambent- 
eyed  wonder  of  a  newly-wakened  ram,  "  verse 
is  a  necklace  of  tinted  sounds  strung  idly, 
yet  lovingly,  upon  stray  tinseled  threads  of 


io6  lole 

thought.  .  .  .  Thank  you  for  understand- 
ing; thank  you." 

The  by-product  in  the  corner  of  the  studio 
gathered  arms  and  legs  into  a  series  of  acute 
angles,  and  writhed ;  a  lady  ornamented  with 
cheek-bones  well  sketched  in,  covered  her  eyes 
with  one  hand  as  though  locked  in  jiu-jitsu 
with  Richard  Strauss. 

Aphrodite's  slender  fingers,  barely  resting 
on  the  harp-strings,  suddenly  contracted  in  a 
nervous  tremor;  a  low  twang  echoed  the  in- 
voluntary reflex  with  a  discord. 

A  young  man,  whose  neck  was  swathed  in 
a  stock  a  la  d'Orsay,  bent  close  to  her  shoul- 
der. 

"  I  feel  that  our  souls,  blindfolded,  are  gro- 
ping toward  one  another/'  he  whispered. 

"  Don't— don't  talk  like  that !  "  she  breathed 
almost  fiercely ;  "  I  am  tired — suffocated  with 
sound,  drugged  with  joss-sticks  and  sandal. 
I  can't  stand  much  more,  I  warn  you." 

"  Are  you  not  well,  beloved." 

"  Perfectly  well — physically.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is — it  has  come  so  suddenly — this  over- 
whelming revulsion — this  exasperation  with 
scents  and  sounds.  ...  I  could  rip  out 
these  harp-strings  and — and  kick  that  chair 


Aphrodite's  slender  fingers,   barely  resting  on  the  harp-strings, 
suddenly  contracted  in  a  nervous  tremor. 


lole  107 

over!  I — I  think  I  need  something — sunlight 
and  the  wind  blowing  my  hair  loose " 

The  young  man  with  the  stock  nodded.  "  It 
is  the  exquisite  pagan  athirst  in  you,  scorched 
by  the  fire  of  spring.  Quench  that  sweet  thirst 
at  the  fount  beautiful " 

"  What  fount  did  you  say  ?  "  she  asked  dan- 
gerously. 

"  The  precious  fount  of  verse,  dear  maid." 

"  No !  "  she  whispered  violently.  "  I'm  half 
drowned  already.  Words,  smells,  sounds,  at- 
titudes, rocking-chairs — and  candles  profaning 
the  sunshine — I  am  suffocated,  I  need  more 
air,  more  sense  and  less  incense — less  sound, 
less  art " 

"  Less — what?  "  he  gasped. 

"  Less  art ! — what  you  call  '  1'arr  ' ! — yes, 
I've  said  it ;  I'm  sick !  sick  of  art !  I  know 
what  I  require  now."  And  as  he  remained 
agape  in  shocked  silence :  "  I  don't  mean  to 
be  rude,  Mr.  Frawley,  but  I  also  require  less 
of  you.  ...  So  much  less  that  father  will 
scarcely  expect  me  to  play  any  more  accom- 
paniments to  your  '  necklaces  of  precious 
tones  ' — so  much  less  that  the  minimum  of 
my  interest  in  you  vanishes  to  absolute  nega- 
tion. ...  So  I  shall  not  marry  you." 


io8  lole 

"  Aphrodite — are — are  you  mad  ?  " 

Her  sulky  red  mouth  was  mute. 

Meanwhile  the  poet's  rich,  resonant  voice 
filled  the  studio  with  an  agreeable  and  ram- 
bling monotone : 

"  Verse  is  a  vehicle  for  expression ;  expres- 
sion is  a  vehicle  for  verse;  sound,  in  itself,  is 
so  subtly  saturated  with  meaning  that  it  re- 
quires nothing  of  added  logic  for  its  vindica- 
tion. Sound,  therefore,  is  sense,  modified  by 
the  mysterious  portent  of  tone.  Thank  you 
for  understanding,  thank  you  for  a  thought — 
very,  very  precious,  a  thought  beautiful/' 

He  smeared  the  air  with  inverted  thumb  and 
smiled  at  Mr.  Frawley,  who  rose,  somewhat 
agitated,  and,  crooking  one  lank  arm  behind 
his  back,  made  a  mechanical  pinch  at  an  at- 
mospheric atom. 

"  If — if  you  do  that  again — if  you  dare  to 
recite  those  verses  about  me,  I  shall  go!  I 
tell  you  I  can't  stand  any  more,"  breathed 
Aphrodite  between  her  clenched  teeth. 

The  young  man  cast  his  large  and  rather 
sickly  eyes  upon  her.  For  a  moment  he  was 
in  doubt,  but  belief  in  the  witchery  of  sound 
prevailed,  for  he  had  yet  to  meet  a  being  in- 
sensible to  the  "  music  of  the  soul,"  and  so 


lole  109 

with  a  fond  and  fatuous  murmur  he  pinched 
the  martyred  atmosphere  once  more,  and  be- 
gan, mousily : 

ALL 

A  tear  a  year 
My  pale  desire  requires, 

And  that  is  all. 

Enlacements  weary,  passion  tires, 
Kisses  are  cinder-ghosts  of  fires 
Smothered  at  birth  with  mortal  earth ; 
And  that  is  all. 

A  year  of  fear 
My  pallid  soul  desires 

And  that  is  all — 

Terror  of  bliss  and  dread  of  happiness, 
A  subtle  need  of  sorrow  and  distress 
And  you  to  weep  one  tear,  no  more,  no 
less, 

And  that  is  all  I  ask — 
And  that  is  all. 

People  were  breathing  thickly ;  the  poet  un- 
affectedly distilled  the  suggested  tear;  it  was 
a  fat  tear;  it  ran  smoothly  down  his  nose, 
twinkled,  trembled,  and  fell. 


no 


lole 


Aphrodite's  features  had  become  tense;  she 
half  rose,  hesitated.  Then,  as  the  young  man 
in  the  stock  turned  his  invalid's  eyes  in  her 
direction  and  began : 

Oh,  sixteen  tears 

In  sixteen  years 

she  transfixed  her  hat  with  one  nervous  ges- 
ture, sprang  to  her  feet,  turned,  and  vanished 
through  the  door. 

"  She  is  too  young  to  endure  it,"  sobbed  the 
by-product  to  her  of  the  sketchy  face.  And 
that  was  no  idle  epigram,  either. 


XIV 


HE  had  no  definite  idea;  all  she 
craved  for  was  the  open — or 
its  metropolitan  substitute  — 
sunshine,  air,  the  glimpse  of 
sanely  preoccupied  faces,  the  dull,  quickening 
tumult  of  traffic.  The  tumult  grew,  increas- 
ing in  her  ears  as  she  crossed  Washington 
Square  under  the  sycamores  and  looked  up 
through  tender  feathery  foliage  at  the  white 
arch  of  marble  through  which  the  noble  ave- 
nue flows  away  between  its  splendid  arid 
chasms  of  marble,  bronze,  and  masonry  to  that 
blessed  leafy  oasis  in  the  north — the  Park. 
17  i" 


1 1 2  lole 

She  took  an  omnibus,  impatient  for  the 
green  rambles  of  the  only  breathing-place  she 
knew  of,  and  settled  back  in  her  seat,  rebellious 
of  eye,  sullen  of  mouth,  scarcely  noticing  the 
amused  expression  of  the  young  man  op- 
posite. 

Two  passengers  left  at  Twenty-third  Street, 
three  at  Thirty-fourth  Street,  and  seven  at 
Forty-second  Street. 

Preoccupied,  she  glanced  up  at  the  only  pas- 
senger remaining,  caught  the  fleeting  shadow 
of  interest  on  his  face,  regarded  him  with 
natural  indifference,  and  looked  out  of  the 
window,  forgetting  him.  A  few  moments 
later,  accidentally  aware  of  him  again,  she 
carelessly  noted  his  superficially  attractive 
qualities,  and,  approving,  resumed  her  idle 
inspection  of  the  passing  throng.  But  the 
next  time  her  pretty  head  swung  round  she 
found  him  looking  rather  fixedly  at  her,  and 
involuntarily  she  returned  the  gaze  with  a 
childlike  directness — a  gaze  which  he  sus- 
tained to  the  limit  of  good  breeding,  then 
evaded  so  amiably  that  it  left  an  impression 
rather  agreeable  than  otherwise. 

"  I  don't  see,"  thought  Aphrodite,  "  why  I 
never  meet  that  sort  of  man.  He  hasn't  art 


lole  113 

nouveau  legs,  and  his  features  are  not  by- 
products of  his  hair.  ...  I  have  told 
my  brothers-in-law  that  I  am  old  enough 
to  go  out  without  coming  out.  .  .  .  And 
I  am." 

The  lovely  mouth  grew  sullen  again :  "  I 
don't  wish  to  wait  two  years  and  be  what 
dreadful  newspapers  call  a  '  bud  ' !  I  wish  to 
go  to  dinners  and  dances  now!  .  .  .  Where 
I'll  meet  that  sort  of  man.  .  .  .  The  sort 
one  feels  almost  at  liberty  to  talk  to  with- 
out anybody  presenting  anybody.  .  .  . 

I've  a  mind  to  look  amiable  the  next  time 
i  » 

He  raised  his  eyes  at  that  instant;  but  she 
did  not  smile. 

"  I — I  suppose  that  is  the  effect  of  civiliza- 
tion on  me,"  she  reflected — "  metropolitan  civ- 
ilization. I  felt  like  saying,  '  For  goodness' 
sake,  let's  say  something ' — even  in  spite  of  all 
'my  sisters  have  told  me.  I  can't  see  why  it 
would  be  dangerous  for  me  to  look  amiable. 
If  he  glances  at  me  again — so  agreeably " 

He  did ;  but  she  didn't  smile. 

"  You  see !  "  she  said,  accusing  herself  dis- 
contentedly ;  "  you  don't  dare  look  human. 
Why?  Because  you've  had  it  so  drummed 


H4 


into  you  that  you  can  never,  never  again  do 
anything  natural.  Why?  Oh,  because  they 
all  begin  to  talk  about  mysterious  dangers 
when  you  say  you  wish  to  be  natural.  .  .  . 
I've  made  up  my  mind  to  look  interested  the 
next  time  he  turns.  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  he 
see  that  I'm  quite  willing  to  talk  to  him? 
.  .  .  And  I'm  so  tired  of  looking  out  of  the 
window.  .  .  .  Before  I  came  to  this  curious 
city  I  was  never  afraid  to  speak  to  anybody  who 
attracted  me.  .  .  .  And  I'm  not  now.  .  .  . 
So  if  he  does  look  at  me  -  " 

He  did. 

The  faintest  glimmer  of  a  smile  troubled 
her  lips.  She  thought  :  "I  do  wish  he'd 
speak  !  " 

There  was  a  very  becoming  color  in  his  face, 
partly  because  he  was  experienced  enough  not 
to  mistake  her  ;  partly  from  a  sudden  and  com- 
plete realization  of  her  beauty. 

"  It's  so  odd,"  thought  Aphrodite,  "  that  at- 
tractive people  consider  it  dangerous  to  speak 
to  one  another.  I  don't  see  any  danger.  .  .  . 
I  wonder  what  he  has  in  that  square  box  be- 
side him?  It  can't  be  a  camera.  ...  It 
can't  be  a  folding  easel  !  It  simply  can't  be 
that  he  is  an  artist  !  a  man  like  that  -  " 


lole  1 1 5 

"  Are  you  ?  "  she  asked  quite  involuntarily. 

"  What  ?  "  he  replied,  astonished,  wheeling 
around. 

"  An — an  artist.  I  can't  believe  it,  and  I 
don't  wish  to !  You  don't  look  it,  you  know  !  " 

For  a  moment  he  could  scarcely  realize  that 
she  had  spoken;  his  keen  gaze  dissected  the 
face  before  him,  the  unembarrassed  eyes,  the 
oval  contour,  the  smooth,  flawless  loveliness 
of  a  child. 

"  Yes,  I  am  an  artist,"  he  said,  considering 
her  curiously. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "  no,  not  sorry — 
only  unpleasantly  surprised.  You  see  I  am  so 
tired  of  art — and  I  thought  you  looked  so — so 
wholesome " 

He  began  to  laugh — a  modulated  laugh — 
rather  infectious,  too,  for  Aphrodite  bit  her  lip, 
then  smiled,  not  exactly  understanding  it  all. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  "  she  asked,  still  smil- 
ing. "  Have  I  said  something  I  should  not 
have  said?  " 

But  he  replied  with  a  question :  "  Have  you 
found  art  unwholesome  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  she  answered  with  a 
little  sigh ;  "  I  am  so  tired  of  it  all.  Don't  let 
us  talk  about  it — will  you  ?  " 


n6  lole 

"  It  isn't  often  I  talk  about  it,"  he  said, 
laughing  again. 

"  Oh !  That  is  unusual.  Why  don't  you 
talk  about  art  ?  " 

"  I'm  much  too  busy." 

"  D — doing  what?  If  that  is  not  very  im- 
pertinent." 

"  Oh,  making  pictures  of  things,"  he  said, 
intensely  amused. 

"  Pictures  ?  You  don't  talk  about  art,  and 
you  paint  pictures !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  W — what  kind  ?  Do  you  mind  my  ask- 
ing? You  are  so — so  very  unusual." 

"  Well,  to  earn  my  living,  I  make  full-page 
pictures  for  magazines;  to  satisfy  an  absurd 
desire,  I  paint  people — things — anything  that 
might  satisfy  my  color  senses."  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  gaily.  "  You  see,  I'm  the  sort 
you  are  so  tired  of " 

"  But  you  paint!  The  artists  I  know  don't 
paint — except  that  way — "  She  raised  her 
pretty  gloved  thumb  and  made  a  gesture  in 
the  air;  and,  before  she  had  achieved  it,  they 
were  both  convulsed  with  laughter. 

"  You  never  do  that,  do  you  ?  "  she  asked 
at  length. 


lole  1 1 7 

"  No,  I  never  do.  I  can't  afford  to  deco- 
rate the  atmosphere  for  nothing !  " 

"  Then — then  you  are  not  interested  in  art 
nouveau  ?  " 

"  No ;  and  I  never  could  see  that  beautiful 
music  resembled  frozen  architecture." 

They  were  laughing  again,  looking  with 
confidence  and  delight  upon  one  another  as 
though  they  had  started  life's  journey  to- 
gether in  that  ancient  omnibus. 

"  What  is  a  '  necklace  of  precious  tones  '  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Precious  stones  ?  " 

"No,  tones!" 

"  Let  me  cite,  as  an  example,  those  beautiful 
verses  of  Henry  Haynes,"  he  replied  gravely. 

TO  BE  OR  NOT  TO  BE 

I'd  rather  be  a  Could  Be, 

If  I  can  not  be  an  Are ; 
For  a  Could  Be  is  a  May  Be, 

With  a  chance  of  touching  par. 

I  had  rather  be  a  Has  Been 

Than  a  Might  Have  Been,  by  far ; 

For  a  Might  Be  is  a  Hasn't  Been 
But  a  Has  was  once  an  Are ! 


n8  lole 

Also  an  Are  is  Is  and  Am ; 

A  Was  was  all  of  these ; 
So  I'd  rather  be  a  Has  Been 

Than  a  Hasn't,  if  you  please. 

And  they  fell  a-laughing  so  shamelessly  that 
the  'bus  driver  turned  and  squinted  through 
his  shutter  at  them,  and  the  scandalized  horses 
stopped  of  their  own  accord. 

"  Are  you  going  to  leave  ? "  he  asked  as 
she  rose. 

"  Yes ;  this  is  the  Park,"  she  said.  "  Thank 
you,  and  good-by." 

He  held  the  door  for  her;  she  nodded  her 
thanks  and  descended,  turning  frankly  to 
smile  again  in  acknowledgment  of  his  quickly 
lifted  hat. 

"  He  was  nice,"  she  reflected  a  trifle  guiltily, 
"and  I  had  a  good  time,  and  I  really  don't  see 
any  danger  in  it." 


XV 


HE  drew  a  deep,  sweet  breath  as 
she  entered  the  leafy  shade 
and  looked  up  into  the  bluest 
of  cloudless  skies.  Odors  of 
syringa  and  lilac  freshened  her,  cleansing  her 
of  the  last  lingering  taint  of  joss-sticks.  The 
cardinal  birds  were  very  busy  in  the  scarlet 
masses  of  Japanese  quince ;  orioles  fluttered 
among  golden  Forsythia ;  here  and  there  an 
exotic  starling  preened  and  peered  at  the  bur- 
nished purple  grackle,  stalking  solemnly 
through  the  tender  grass. 

For   an   hour   she    walked    vigorously,    en- 
chanted with  the  sun  and  sky  and  living  green, 
through  arbors  heavy  with  wistaria,  iris  hued 
18  119 


1 20  lole 

and  scented,  through  rambles  under  tall  elms 
tufted  with  new  leaves,  past  fountains  splash- 
ing over,  past  lakes  where  water-fowl  floated 
or  stretched  brilliant  wings  in  the  late  after- 
noon sunlight.  At  times  the  summer  wind 
blew  her  hair,  and  she  lifted  her  lips  to  it, 
caressing  it  with  every  fiber  of  her ;  at  times 
she  walked  pensively,  wondering  why  she  had 
been  forbidden  the  Park  unless  accompanied. 

"  More  danger,  I  suppose,"  she  thought  im- 
patiently. .  .  .  "  Well,  what  is  this  danger 
that  seems  to  travel  like  one's  shadow,  dog- 
ging a  girl  through  the  world?  It  seems  to 
me  that  if  all  the  pleasant  things  of  life  are 
so  full  of  danger  I'd  better  find  out  what  it 
is.  ...  I  might  as  well  look  for  it  so  that 
I'll  recognize  it  when  I  encounter  it.  ... 
And  learn  to  keep  away." 

She  scanned  the  flowery  thickets  attentively, 
looked  behind  her,  then  walked  on. 

"  If  it's  robbers  they  mean,"  she  reflected, 
"I'm  a  good  wrestler,  and  I  can  make  any 
one  of  my  four  brothers-in-law  look  foolish. 
.  .  .  Besides,  the  Park  is  full  of  fat  police- 
men. .  .  .  And  if  they  mean  I'm  likely 
to  get  lost,  or  run  over,  or  arrested,  or  poi- 
soned with  soda-water  and  bonbons — "  She 


lole  1 2 1 

laughed  to  herself,  swinging  on  in  her  free- 
limbed,  wholesome  beauty,  scarcely  noticing  a 
man  ahead,  occupying  a  bench  half  hidden 
under  the  maple's  foliage. 

"  So  I'll  just  look  about  for  this  danger  they 
are  all  afraid  of,  and  when  I  see  it,  I'll  know 
what  to  do/'  she  concluded,  paying  not  the 
slightest  heed  to  the  man  on  the  bench  until  he 
rose,  as  she  passed  him,  and  took  off  his  hat. 

"  You !  "  she  exclaimed. 

She  had  stopped  short,  confronting  him  with 
the  fearless  and  charming  directness  natural 
to  her.  "  What  an  amusing  accident,"  she 
said  frankly. 

"  The  truth  is/'  he  began,  "  it  is  not  exactly 
an  accident." 

"Isn't  it?" 

"  N — no.     .     .     .    Are  you  offended  ?  " 

"Offended?  No.  Should  I  be?  Why? 
.  .  .  Besides,  I  suppose  when  we  have  fin- 
ished this  conversation  you  are  going  the 
other  way." 

"  I— no,  I  wasn't." 

"  Oh !     Then  you  are  going  to  sit  here  ?  " 

"  Y — yes — I  suppose  so.  ...  But  I 
don't  want  to." 

"  Then  why  do  you?  " 


122  lole 

"  Well,  if  I'm  not  going  the  other  way,  and 
if  I'm  not  going  to  remain  here — "  He  looked 
at  her,  half  laughing.  She  laughed,  too,  not 
exactly  knowing  why. 

"  Don't  you  really  mind  my  walking  a  little 
way  with  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  I  don't.  Why  should  I?  Is  there 
any  reason?  Am  I  not  old  enough  to  know 
why  we  should  not  walk  together?  Is  it  be- 
cause the  sun  is  going  down?  Is  there  what 
people  call  '  danger  '  ?  " 

He  was  so  plainly  taken  aback  that  her  fair 
young  face  became  seriously  curious. 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  you  should  not 
walk  with  me  ?  "  she  persisted. 

The  clear,  direct  gaze  challenged  him.  He 
hesitated. 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  he  said. 

"A — a  reason  why  you  should  not  walk 
with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"What  is  it?" 

And,  as  he  did  not  find  words  to  answer, 
she  studied  him  for  a  moment,  glanced  up  and 
down  the  woodland  walk,  then  impulsively 
seated  herself  and  motioned  him  to  a  place 
beside  her  on  the  bench. 


lole  123 

"  Now/'  she  said,  "  I'm  in  a  position  to  find 
out  just  what  this  danger  is  that  they  all  warn 
me  about.  You  know,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Know  what  ?  "  he  answered. 

"  About  the  danger  that  I  seem  to  run  every 
time  I  manage  to  enjoy  myself.  .  .  .  And 
you  do  know ;  I  see  it  by  the  way  you  look  at 
me — and  your  expression  is  just  like  their  ex- 
pression when  they  tell  me  not  to  do  things  I 
find  most  natural." 

«  But— I— you " 

"  You  must  tell  me !  I  shall  be  thoroughly 
vexed  with  you  if  you  don't." 

Then  he  began  to  laugh,  and  she  let  him, 
leaning  back  to  watch  him  with  uncertain  and 
speculative  blue  eyes.  After  a  moment  he 
said: 

"  You  are  absolutely  unlike  any  girl  I  ever 
heard  of.  I  am  trying  to  get  used  to  it — to 
adjust  things.  Will  you  help  me?" 

"  How  ?  "  she  asked  innocently. 

"  Well,  by  telling  me  "—he  looked  at  her  a 
moment — "  your  age.  You  look  about  nine- 
teen." 

"  I  am  sixteen  and  a  half.  I  and  all  my 
sisters  have  developed  our  bodies  so  perfectly 
because,  until  we  came  to  New  York  last  au- 


124  lole 

tumn,  we  had  lived  all  our  lives  out-of-doors." 
She  looked  at  him  with  a  friendly  smile. 
"  Would  you  really  like  to  know  about  us  ?  " 

"  Intensely." 

"Well,  there  are  eight  of  us:  Chlorippe, 
thirteen;  Philodice,  fourteen;  Dione,  fifteen; 
Aphrodite,  sixteen — I  am  Aphrodite;  Cybele, 
seventeen,  married;  Lissa,  eighteen,  married; 
lole,  nineteen,  married,  and  Vanessa,  twenty, 
married."  She  raised  one  small,  gloved  finger 
to  emphasize  the  narrative.  "  All  our  lives  we 
were  brought  up  to  be  perfectly  natural,  to  live, 
act,  eat,  sleep,  play  like  primitive  people.  Our 
father  dressed  us  like  youths — boys,  you  know. 
Why,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  until  we  came  to 
New  York  we  had  no  idea  that  girls  wore 
such  lovely,  fluffy  underwear — but  I  believe  I 
am  not  to  mention  such  things;  at  least  they 
have  told  me  not  to — but  my  straight  front 
is  still  a  novelty  to  me,  and  so  are  my  stock- 
ings, so  you  won't  mind  if  I've  said  something 
I  shouldn't,  will  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said ;  his  face  was  expressionless. 

"  Then  that's  all  right.  So  you  see  how  it 
is ;  we  don't  quite  know  what  we  may  do  in 
this  city.  At  first  we  were  delighted  to  see  so 
many  attractive  men,  and  we  wanted  to  speak 


lole  125 

to  some  of  them  who  seemed  to  want  to  speak 
to  us,  but  my  father  put  a  stop  to  that — but  it's 
absurd  to  think  all  those  men  might  be  rob- 
bers, isn't  it?" 

"  Very."  There  was  not  an  atom  of  intelli- 
gence left  in  his  face. 

"  So  that's  all  right,  then.  Let  me  see,  what 
was  I  saying  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  know !  So  four  of 
my  sisters  were  married,  and  we  four  remain- 
ing are  being  civilized.  .  .  .  But,  oh — I 
wish  I  could  be  in  the  country  for  a  little 
while !  I'm  so  homesick  for  the  meadows  and 
brooks  and  my  pajamas  and  my  bare  feet  in 
sandals  again.  .  .  .  And  people  seem  to 
know  so  little  in  New  York,  and  nobody  un- 
derstands us  when  we  make  little  jests  in 
Greek,  or  Latin,  or  Arabic,  and  nobody  seems 
to  have  been  very  well  educated  and  accom- 
plished, so  we  feel  strange  at  times." 

"  D — d — do  you  do  all  those  things  ?  " 

"What  things?" 

"  M — make  jests  in  Arabic?  " 

"Why,  yes.     Don't  you?" 

"No.     What  else  do  you  do?" 

"  Why,  not  many  things." 

"Music?" 

"  Oh,  of  course." 


126  lole 

"Piano?" 

"  Yes,  piano,  violin,  harp,  guitar,  zither — all 
that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  Don't  you  ?  " 

"No.     What  else?" 

"  Why — just  various  things,  ride,  swim, 
fence,  box — I  box  pretty  well — all  those 
things " 

"  Science,  too  ?  " 

"  Rudiments.  Of  course  I  couldn't,  for  ex- 
ample, discourse  with  authority  upon  the 
heteropterous  mictidae  or  tell  you  in  what 
genus  or  genera  the  prothorax  and  femora  are 
digitate ;  or  whether  climatic  and  polymorphic 
forms  of  certain  diurnal  lepidoptera  occur 
within  certain  boreal  limits.  I  have  only  a 
vague  and  superficial  knowledge  of  any  sci- 
ence, you  see." 

"  I  see,"  he  said  gravely. 

She  leaned  foward  thoughtfully,  her  pretty 
hands  loosely  interlaced  upon  her  knee. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  about  this  dan- 
ger that  such  a  girl  as  I  must  guard  against." 

"  There  is  no  danger,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  But  they  told  me " 

"  Let  them  tell  you  what  it  is,  then." 

"No;  you  tell  me?" 

"  I  can't." 


lole  127 

"Why?" 

"  Because — I  simply  can't." 

"  Are  you  ashamed  to  ?  " 

"  Perhaps—"  He  lifted  his  boxed  sketch- 
ing-kit by  the  strap,  swung  it,  then  set  it  care- 
fully upon  the  ground :  "  Perhaps  it  is  because 
I  am  ashamed  to  admit  that  there  could  be  any 
danger  to  any  woman  in  this  world  of  men." 

She  looked  at  him  so  seriously  that  he 
straightened  up  and  began  to  laugh.  But  she 
did  not  forget  anything  he  had  said,  and  she 
began  her  questions  at  once: 

"  Why  should  you  not  walk  with  me  ?  " 

"  I'll  take  that  back,"  he  said,  still  laugh- 
ing; "  there  is  every  reason  why  I  should  walk 
with  you." 

"  Oh !     .     .     .     But  you  said " 

"  All  I  meant  was  not  for  you,  but  for  the 
ordinary  sort  of  girl.  Now,  the  ordinary, 
every-day,  garden  girl  does  not  concern 
you " 

"  Yes,  she  does !    Why  am  I  not  like  her  ?  " 

"  Don't  attempt  to  be " 

"Am  I  different — very  different?" 

"  Superbly  different !  "  The  flush  came  to 
his  face  with  the  impulsive  words. 

She  considered  him  in  silence,  then: 
19 


128  Me 

"  Should  I  have  been  offended  because  you 
came  into  the  Park  to  find  me?  And  why 
did  you?  Do  you  find  me  interesting?" 

"  So  interesting,"  he  said,  "  that  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  do  when  you  go  away." 

Another  pause ;  she  was  deeply  absorbed 
with  her  own  thoughts.  He  watched  her,  the 
color  still  in  his  face,  and  in  his  eyes  a  grow- 
ing fascination. 

"  I'm  not  out,"  she  said,  resting  her  chin 
on  one  gloved  hand,  "  so  we're  not  likely  to 
meet  at  any  of  those  jolly  things  you  go  to. 
What  do  you  think  we'd  better  do? — because 
they've  all  warned  me  against  doing  just  what 
you  and  I  have  done." 

"  Speaking  without  knowing  each  other  ?  " 
he  asked  guiltily. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  But  I  did  it  first  to  you. 
Still,  when  I  tell  them  about  it,  they  won't 
let  you  come  to  visit  me.  I  tried  it  once.  I 
was  in  a  car,  and  such  an  attractive  man 
looked  at  me  as  though  he  wanted  to  speak, 
and  so  when  I  got  out  of  the  car  he  got  out, 
and  I  thought  he  seemed  rather  timid,  so  I 
asked  him  where  Tiffany's  was.  I  really 
didn't  know,  either.  So  we  had  such  a  jolly 
walk  together  up  Fifth  Avenue,  and  when  I 


lole  129 

said  good-by  he  was  so  anxious  to  see  me 
again,  and  I  told  him  where  I  lived.  But — 
do  you  know? — when  I  explained  about  it  at 
home  they  acted  so  strangely,  and  they  never 
would  tell  me  whether  or  not  he  ever  came." 

"  Then  you  intend  to  tell  them  all  about — 
us?" 

"  Of  course.     I've  disobeyed  them." 

"  And— and  I  am  never  to  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  disobedient,"  she  said  inno- 
cently. "  If  I  wanted  to  see  you  I'd  do  it." 

"But  do  you?" 

"  I — I  am  not  sure.  Do  you  want  to  see 
me?" 

His  answer  was  stammered  and  almost  in- 
coherent. That,  and  the  color  in  his  face  and 
the  something  in  his  eyes,  interested  her. 

"  Do  you  really  find  me  so  attractive  ?  "  she 
asked,  looking  him  directly  in  the  eyes.  "  You 
must  answer  me  quickly;  see  how  dark  it  is 
growing!  I  must  go.  Tell  me,  do  you  like 
me?" 

"  I  never  cared  so  much  for — for  any 
woman " 

She  dimpled  with  delight  and  lay  back 
regarding  him  under  level,  unembarrassed 
brows. 


1 30  lole 

"  That  is  very  pleasant,"  she  said.  "  I've 
often  wished  that  a  man — of  your  kind — 
would  say  that  to  me.  I  do  wish  we  could 
be  together  a  great  deal,  because  you  like  me 
so  much  already  and  I  truly  do  find  you  agree- 
able. .  .  .  Say  it  to  me  again — about  how 
much  you  like  me." 

"  I — I — there  is  no  woman — none  I  ever 
saw  so — so  interesting.  ...  I  mean  more 
than  that." 

"  Say  it  then." 

"Say  what  I  mean?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  am  afraid " 

"Afraid?    Of  what?" 

"  Of  offending  you- 


Is  it  an  offense  to  me  to  tell  me  how  much 
you  like  me  ?  How  can  it  offend  me  ?  " 

"  But — it  is  incredible !  You  won't  be- 
lieve  " 

"Believe  what?" 

"  That  in  so  short  a  time  I — I  could  care 
for  you  so  much " 

"  But  I  shall  believe  you.  I  know  how  I 
feel  toward  you.  And  every  time  you  speak 
to  me  I  feel  more  so." 

"  Feel  more  so  ?  "  he  stammered. 


lole  1 3 1 

"  Yes,  I  experience  more  delight  in  what 
you  say.  Do  you  think  I  am  insensible  to 
the  way  you  look  at  me  ?  " 

"  You — you  mean — "  He  simply  could  not 
find  words. 

She  leaned  back,  watching  him  with  sweet 
composure;  then  laughed  a  little  and  said: 
"  Do  you  suppose  that  you  and  I  are  going 
to  fall  in  love  with  one  another  ?  " 

In  the  purpling  dusk  the  perfume  of  wistaria 
grew  sweeter  and  sweeter. 

"  I've  done  it  already — "  His  voice  shook 
and  failed;  a  thrush,  invisible  in  shadowy 
depths,  made  soft,  low  sounds. 

"  You  love  me — already  ?  "  she  exclaimed 
under  her  breath. 

"  Love  you  !  I — I — there  are  no  words — " 
The  thrush  stirred  the  sprayed  foliage  and 
called  once,  then  again,  restless  for  the  moon. 

Her  eyes  wandered  over  him  thoughtfully : 
"  So  that  is  love.  ...  I  didn't  know.  .  .  . 
I  supposed  it  could  be  nothing  pleasanter  than 
friendship,  although  they  say  it  is.  ... 
But  how  could  it  be  ?  There  is  nothing  pleas- 
anter than  friendship.  ...  I  am  perfectly 
delighted  that  you  love  me.  Shall  we  marry 
some  day,  do  you  think  ?  " 


132  lole 

He  strove  to  speak,  but  her  frankness 
stunned  him. 

"  I  meant  to  tell  you  that  I  am  engaged," 
she  observed.  "  Does  that  matter?  " 

"  Engaged  !  "  He  found  his  tongue  quickly 
enough  then;  and  she,  surprised,  interested, 
and  in  nowise  dissenting,  listened  to  his  elo- 
quent views  upon  the  matter  of  Mr.  Frawley, 
whom  she,  during  the  lucid  intervals  of  his 
silence,  curtly  described. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said  with  great  relief, 
"that  I  always  felt  that  way  about  love,  be- 
cause I  never  knew  anything  about  it  except 
from  the  symptoms  of  Mr.  Frawley  ?  So  when 
they  told  me  that  love  and  friendship  were 
different,  I  supposed  it  must  be  so,  and  I  had 
no  high  opinion  of  love  .  .  .  until  you 
made  it  so  agreeable.  Now  I — I  prefer  it  to 
anything  else.  ...  I  could  sit  here  with 
you  all  day,  listening  to  you.  Tell  me  some 
more." 


XVI 


E  did.  She  listened,  sometimes  in- 
tently interested,  absorbed,  some- 
times leaning  back  dreamily,  her 
eyes  partly  veiled  under  silken 
lashes,  her  mouth  curved  with  the  vaguest  of 
smiles. 

He  spoke  as  a  man  who  awakes  with  a 
start — not  very  clearly  at  first,  then  with  fe- 
verish coherence,  at  times  with  recklessness  al- 
most eloquent.  Still  only  half  awakened  him- 
self, still  scarcely  convinced,  scarcely  credulous 
that  this  miracle  of  an  hour  had  been  wrought 
in  him,  here  under  the  sky  and  setting  sun 
and  new-born  leaves,  he  spoke  not  only  to  her 

133 


134 


but  of  her  to  himself,  formulating  in  words 
the  rhythm  his  pulses  were  beating,  interpret- 
ing this  surging  tide  which  thundered  in  his 
heart,  clamoring  out  the  fact  —  -the  fact  —  the 
fact  that  he  loved  !  —  that  love  was  on  him  like 
the  grip  of  Fate  —  on  him  so  suddenly,  so 
surely,  so  inexorably,  that,  stricken  as  he  was, 
the  clutch  only  amazed  and  numbed  him. 

He  spoke,  striving  to  teach  himself  that  the 
incredible  was  credible,  the  impossible  possible 
—  that  it  was  done!  done!  done!  and  that  he 
loved  a  woman  in  an  hour  because,  in  an  hour, 
he  had  read  her  innocence  as  one  reads 
through  crystal,  and  his  eyes  were  opened 
for  the  first  time  upon  loveliness  unspoiled, 
sweetness  untainted,  truth  uncompromised. 

"  Do  you  know/'  she  said,  "  that,  as  you 
speak,  you  make  me  care  for  you  so  much 
more  than  I  supposed  a  girl  ,could  care  for  a 
man  ?  " 

"  Can  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  do  already  !  I  don't  mean  mere 
love.  It  is  something  —  something  that  I  never 
knew  about  before.  Everything  about  you  is 
so  —  so  exactly  what  I  care  for  —  your  voice, 
your  head,  the  way  you  think,  the  way  you 
look  at  me.  I  never  thought  of  men  as  I  am 


lole  135 

thinking  about  you.  ...  I  want  you  to 
belong  to  me — all  alone.  ...  I  want  to 
see  how  you  look  when  you  are  angry,  or  wor- 
ried, or  tired.  I  want  you  to  think  of  me  when 
you  are  perplexed  and  unhappy  and  ill.  Will 
you?  You  must!  There  is  nobody  else,  is 
there?  If  you  do  truly  love  me?  " 

"  Nobody  but  you." 

"  That  is  what  I  desire.  ...  I  want  to 
live  with  you — I  promise  I  won't  talk  about 
art — even  your  art,  which  I  might  learn  to 
care  for.  All  I  want  is  to  really  live  and  have 
your  troubles  to  meet  and  overcome  them  be- 
cause I  will  not  permit  anything  to  harm  you. 
...  I  will  love  you  enough  for  that.  .  .  . 
I — do  you  love  other  women  ?  " 

"Good  God,  no!" 

"  And  you  shall  not !  "  She  leaned  closer, 
looking  him  through  and  through.  "  I  will  be 
what  you  love !  I  zvill  be  what  you  desire 
most  in  all  the  world.  I  will  be  to  you  every- 
thing you  wish,  in  every  way,  always,  ever, 
and  forever  and  ever.  .  .  .  Will  you  marry 
me?" 

"Willyowf" 

"  Yes." 

She     suddenly     stripped     off     her     glove, 

.      20 


136  lole 

wrenched  a  ring  set  with  brilliants  from 
the  third  ringer  of  her  left  hand,  and,  rising, 
threw  it,  straight  as  a  young  boy  throws,  far 
out  into  deepening  twilight.  It  was  the  end 
of  Mr.  Frawley ;  he,  too,  had  not  only  become 
a  by-product  but  a  good-by  product.  Yet  his 
modest  demands  had  merely  required  a  tear 
a  year !  Perhaps  he  had  not  asked  enough. 
Love  pardons  the  selfish. 

She  was  laughing,  a  trifle  excited,  as  she 
turned  to  face  him  where  he  had  risen.  But, 
at  the  touch  of  his  hand  on  hers,  the  laughter 
died  at  a  breath,  and  she  stood,  her  limp  hand 
clasped  in  his,  silent,  expressionless,  save  for 
the  tremor  of  her  mouth. 

"  I — I  must  go,"  she  said,  shrinking  from 
him. 

He  did  not  understand,  thrilled  as  he  was 
by  the  contact,  but  he  let  her  soft  hand  fall 
away  from  his. 

Then  with  a  half  sob  she  caught  her  own 
fingers  to  her  lips  and  kissed  them  where  the 
pressure  of  his  hand  burned  her  white  flesh — 
kissed  them,  looking  at  him. 

"  You — you  find  a  child — you  leave  a 
woman,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "  Do  you 
understand  how  I  love  you — for  that  ?  " 


lole  137 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  No — not  yet — not  my  mouth  !  "  she 
pleaded,  holding  him  back ;  "  I  love  you  too 
much — already  too  much.  Wait !  Oh,  will 
you  wait?  .  .  .  And  let  me  wait — make 
me  wait?  .  .  .  I — I  begin  to  understand 
some  things  I  did  not  know  an  hour  ago." 

In  the  dusk  he  could  scarcely  see  her  as  she 
swayed,  yielding,  her  arms  tightening  about 
his  neck  in  the  first  kiss  she  had  ever  given 
or  forgiven  in  all  her  life. 

And  through  the  swimming  tumult  of  their 
senses  the  thrush's  song  rang  like  a  cry.  The 
moon  had  risen. 


XVII 


jOUNTINGthe  deadened  stairway 
noiselessly  to  her  sister's  room, 
groping  for  the  door  in  the 
dark  of  the  landing,  she  called : 
"  lole !  "  And  again :  "  lole !  Come  to  me ! 
It  is  I !  " 

The  door  swung  noiselessly;  a  dim  form 
stole  forward,  wide-eyed  and  white  in  the 
electric  light. 

Then  down  at  her  sister's  feet  dropped  Aph- 
rodite, and  laid  a  burning  face  against  her 
silken  knees.  And,  "  Oh,  lole,  lole/'  she  whis- 
pered, "  lole,  lole,  lole !  There  is  danger,  as 
you  say — there  is,  and  I  understand  it  ... 
now.  .  .  .  But  I  love  him  so — I — I  have 
been  so  happy — so  happy!  Tell  me  what  I 
138 


lole  139 

have  done  ...  and  how  wrong  it  is !  Oh, 
lole,  lole !  What  have  I  done !  " 

"  Done,  child  !  What  in  the  name  of  all  the 
gods  have  you  done?  " 

"  Loved  him — in  the  names  of  all  the  gods ! 
Oh,  lole!  lole!  lole!" 

" The  thrush  singing  in  darkness ;  the 

voice  of  spring  calling,  calling  me  to  his  arms ! 
Oh,  lole,  lole ! — these,  and  my  soul  and  his, 
alone  under  the  pagan  moon !  alone,  save  for 
the  old  gods  whispering  in  the  dusk " 

" And   listening,   I   heard  the   feathery 

tattoo  of  wings  close  by — the  wings  of  Eros 
all  aquiver  like  a  soft  moth  trembling  ere  it 
flies!  Peril  divine!  I  understood  it  then. 
And,  stirring  in  darkness,  sweet  as  the  melody 
of  unseen  streams,  I  heard  the  old  gods  laugh- 
ing. .  .  .  Then  I  knew." 

"Is  that  all,  little  sister?" 
"  Almost  all." 
"What  more?" 

And  when,  at  length,  the  trembling  tale  was 
told,  lole  caught  her  in  her  white  arms,  looked 


140  lole 

at  her  steadily,  then  kissed  her  again  and 
again. 

"  If  he  is  all  you  say — this  miracle— I — I 
think  I  can  make  them  understand,"  she  whis- 
pered. "  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  D-down-stairs — at  b-bay  !  Hark  !  You 
can  hear  George  swearing!  Oh,  lole,  don't 
let  him !  " 

In  the  silence  from  the  drawing-room  below 
came  the  solid  sobs  of  the  poet : 

"  P-pup !     P-p-penniless  pup  !  " 

'"  He  must  not  say  that !  "  cried  Aphrodite 
fiercely.  "  Can't  you  make  father  and  George 
understand  that  he  has  nearly  six  hundred  dol- 
lars in  the  bank  ?  " 

"  I  will  try,"  said  lole  tenderly.     "  Come !  " 

And  with  one  arm  around  Aphrodite  she 
descended  the  great  stairway,  where,  on  the 
lower  landing,  immensely  interested,  sat  Chlo- 
rippe,  Philodice  and  Dione,  observant,  fairly 
aquiver  with  intelligence. 

"  Oh,  that  young  man  is  catching  it !  "  re- 
marked Dione,  looking  up  as  lole  passed,  her 
arm  close  around  her  sister's  waist.  "  George 
has  said  '  dammit '  seven  times  and  father  is 
rocking — not  in  a  rocking-chair — just  rocking 
and  expressing  his  inmost  thoughts.  And  Mr. 


lole  141 

Briggs  pretends  to  scowl  and  mutters :  '  Hook 
him  over  the  ropes,  George.  'E  ain't  got  no 
friends ! '  Take  a  peep,  lole.  You  can  just 
see  them  if  you  lean  over  and  hang  on  to  the 
banisters " 

But  lole  brushed  by  her  younger  sisters, 
Aphrodite  close  beside  her,  and,  entering  the 
great  receiving-hall,  stood  still,  her  clear  eyes 
focused  upon  her  husband's  back. 

"  George !  " 

Mr.  Wayne  stiffened  and  wheeled ;  Mr. 
Briggs  sidled  hastily  toward  the  doorway, 
crabwise;  the  poet  choked  back  the  word, 
"  Phup !  "  and  gazed  at  his  tall  daughter  with 
apprehension  and  protruding  lips. 

"  lole,"  began  Wayne,  "  this  is  no  place  for 
you !  Aphrodite.!  let  that  fellow  alone,  I 
say!" 

lole  turned,  following  with  calm  eyes  the 
progress  of  her  sister  toward  a  tall  young  man 
who  stood  by  the  window,  a  red  flush  staining 
his  strained  face. 

The  tense  muscles  in  jaw  and  cheek  relaxed 
as  Aphrodite  laid  one  hand  on  his  arm ;  the 
poet,  whose  pursed  lips  were  overloaded,  ex- 
pelled a  passionate  "  Phupp !  "  and  the  young 
man's  eyes  narrowed  again  at  the  shot. 


142  lole 

Then  silence  lengthened  to  a  waiting  men- 
ace, and  even  the  three  sisters  on  the  stairs 
succumbed  to  the  oppressive  stillness.  And  all 
the  while  lole  stood  like  a  white  Greek  god- 
dess under  the  glory  of  her  hair,  looking  full 
into  the  eyes  of  the  tall  stranger. 

A  minute  passed ;  a  glimmer  dawned  to  a 
smile  and  trembled  in  the  azure  of  lole's  eyes ; 
she  slowly  lifted  her  arms,  white  hands  out- 
stretched, looking  steadily  at  the  stranger. 

He  came,  tense,  erect;  lole's  cool  hands 
dropped  in  his.  And,  turning  to  the  others 
with  a  light  on  her  face  that  almost  blinded 
him,  she  said,  laughing:  "Do  you  not  under- 
stand ?  Aphrodite  brings  us  the  rarest  gift  in 
the  world  in  this  tall  young  brother !  Look ! 
Touch  him !  We  have  never  seen  his  like  be- 
fore for  all  the  wisdom  of  wise  years.  For 
he  is  one  of  few — and  men  are  many,  and  art- 
ists legion — this  honorable  miracle,  this  sane 
and  wholesome  wonder!  this  trinity,  Lover, 
Artist,  and  Man ! '" 

And,  turning  again,  she  looked  him  wist- 
fully, wonderingly,  in  the  eyes. 

(i) 

THE    END 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

OVERDUE, 


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